


Sleepless Nights

by aussieokie



Category: The Blacklist (TV)
Genre: Kinda AU, Ressler can't sleep, Ressler has to hunt his best friend, Season 3
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-08-16
Updated: 2015-08-29
Packaged: 2018-04-15 02:15:02
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 10
Words: 35,786
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/4589208
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/aussieokie/pseuds/aussieokie
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>This is a very different story for me. I hope you will be kind and forgive me if it feels different to my usual writing. As always, it's Ressler – this one even more than usual. This is an idea that got in my head for Season 3 and I couldn't get it out. Set post 2x22. Ressler has to hunt his best friend. And he's literally losing sleep over it. Keenler (of course!)</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

_So here is my second Summer hiatus story! When I finished The Raven, I got several requests to do a follow up chapter, but my mind was already in this story! This is a very different story for me. I hope you will be kind and forgive me if it feels different to my usual writing. As always, it's Ressler – this one even more than usual. This is an idea that got in my head and I couldn't get it out. So I decided it needed to be written. It's completely outside of my usual universe, though it does mention events from The Raven. (So when I restart Conversations in Season 3, none of this will have happened!)_

_It's almost AU, because it's an idea I had that COULD happen in the show. It probably never will, but hey, what if it did?! So here it is. It starts six days after Liz ran, and the first chapter jumps through a few days here and there to set the scene, then it follows each day from Day 43 onward._

* * *

Day 6

"Aram!" Ressler prompts him through his wrist mic as he halts on the street. "Where is she?!"

Eyes scanning the screens before him and darting up to the monitors, Aram is striving to comply with Ressler's request out in the field. He had eyes on their quarry, Ressler almost had her and now he's lost sight of her. "It's coming up now. I'm sorry, I'm accessing traffic cameras and-"

"Give me something!" Ressler is in no mood for apologies as he stands at the corner, panting after his pursuit. "Come on. Come on. Come on," he hisses, eyes darting around him for any sign of his quarry.

For any sign of Liz.

"Where is she?!" he yells again, gritting his teeth as he waits, scanning the road in either direction.

"Got her! Norfolk and Cordell!" Aram's voice is clear in his ear as Ressler takes off. He's on Del Ray. He's on the wrong damn street.

"Shit!" he curses, running toward Norfolk.

"She's moving!" Aram informs him again, "Turn left! She's passing in front of a Japanese restaurant!"

Ressler doesn't answer as he sprints, blue FBI jacket flying out behind him as he reaches Norfolk and turns left toward Cordell. Cars screech to a halt as he flies across the street, narrowly missing a mom wagon full of kids. He ignores the woman's cat calls as he dashes away from her. He doesn't have time to think about it right now.

Aram's voice is in his ear again over the sound of his harsh breathing as he runs. He really needs to get in better shape.

"She's crossing the street! Half way up Cordell!"

He's gaining on her. Turning in a wide arc he flies around the corner, eyes scanning the pedestrians half way up the block. He doesn't see her at all.

"Oh no, I lost her again!" Aram calls out to him. "I'm sorry, there are holes in the camera cover," he explains, but Ressler isn't listening. Running as fast as he can, he dashes along the footpath as pedestrians scatter. She is nowhere in sight.

"Shit!" She can't be far.

And as if in slow motion, in stark contrast to his mad dash up the street, he suddenly sees her as she exits a store and steps calmly onto the footpath. It's only been six days, yet it feels so much longer since he's looked at her. Hair lightly wafting around her face, she is the picture of grace, her white soft blouse billowing lightly around her in the breeze. He suddenly halts his frantic pace, and can't take his eyes off her as she dons her sunglasses.

"Got her! You're almost there!" Aram informs him, completely breaking his train of thought. He's well aware he's almost there. He can see her.

She turns along the footpath away from him and resuming his run he flies across the street toward her as she walks. She hasn't seen him, he's sure of that.

"Oh my-! Agent Ressler!"

The warning cry comes too late. Something hard impacts with him, buckling his knees as he crashes to the ground to the screech of brakes. A chrome bumper fills his vision as his head slams hard on the asphalt. Startled, he doesn't know what's happened for a second or two. Until the searing pain comes from his head and right knee simultaneously. He's been hit by a car. Shouts erupt around him as the traffic stops in the street. And above him, faces surround his field of view as hands reach for him.

"Oh my God! Are you okay?!" a voice cries out.

"Call an ambulance!" someone yells nearby.

Aram is frantically calling in his ear. "Agent Ressler! Are you okay?!"

Unable to answer any of them with the wind completely knocked out of him he simply pants, trying to take a bigger breath.

The woman driver is hysterical, her hands to her plump face as she looks down at the FBI agent. "I didn't see him! Oh, sweet Jesus! I didn't see him!"

"Help… me up..." he pants as hands comply and gently raise him to a sitting position.

"Sir, an ambulance is on its way!"

Ressler is aware of them, but his focus is elsewhere. Further up the street, Liz has turned at the commotion. His distinctive reddish blonde hair above the blue FBI jacket is immediately recognizable.

As she turns in his direction, her eyes widen in response.

"Ressler!"

His heart leaps in his chest at the sound of her voice. Ressler can only try and gasp for air as arms support him. Behind the Good Samaritan nearest to him, he spots Liz. She is running.

But this time she is running toward him.

"Liz," he whispers as his lungs remember how to breathe. She is almost at the accident scene when a black car pulls up beside her. "No!" he gasps.

"Agent Ressler!" Aram is still yelling at him. "Oh, my God!"

"Are you okay, sir?!" A man is in his face, but Ressler ignores them all as he watches Liz.

Arms reach for her, stopping her headlong flight toward him. Ressler knows immediately who is with her. The fedora gives it away as Reddington pulls her with him toward the car. But she's fighting Red, pointing in his direction. His view is momentarily blocked and Ressler can no longer see what's happening. All he hears is Liz shouting again.

"Ressler!"

And then the black car is gone. Reddington has come at the last second and swept her away again.

The sound of ambulance sirens fill the air and Ressler feels himself dropping down again as everything suddenly sways alarmingly. Arms gently lay him on the road as faces block out the blue sky above him.

"I really didn't see him. He was just suddenly there!" The woman is crying hard as a young woman tries to comfort her.

"Agent Ressler. Oh, my God. Agent Ressler, please answer!" Aram's voice is still in his ear.

He finally manages to lift his left arm and speak into the mic. "I lost her."

Around them, the ambulance has pushed its way through and come to a halt beside him. But all he can see is the image of Liz. Soft and feminine as her hair gently moves in the light breeze as she places her sunglasses on her face.

"Liz…" he whispers, as a medic shines a light in his eyes.

###

As he leaves the ER, Aram and Samar are waiting for him. He hasn't asked them to come, but they've come anyway to drive him home. At the sight of him being wheeled through the wide hospital doors in a wheelchair, Aram springs from the driver's seat as Samar walks around from the other side of the car.

"Oh my god! Agent Ressler! Will you ever walk again?!"

Despite the pain in his head, Ressler regards Aram and shakes his head in mild amusement.

"Oh, my gosh!"

"I think I can manage, thanks," Ressler tells the nurse, before climbing slowly to his feet, favoring his heavily strapped right knee.

"It's a miracle," smiles Samar, patting Aram on the arm.

"Right, okay, yeah, they have to wheel you out of the ER in the… got it," Aram stammers.

Ressler positions himself carefully in the front passenger seat, which is no mean feat since he can barely bend his knee.

Samar leans down to him as she helps him find his seatbelt. "You do like to live dangerously, don't you?"

Ressler grimaces. "Something like that, yeah."

"We'll take you home, and I suggest you take all the time off that the doctor in there ordered."

"It's just a damn knee sprain. It looks worse than it feels," or so he tells himself. "I'm fine."

"Of course you are," Samar tells him with a grin as Aram pulls out onto the street.

Ressler only half hears what she says next as his mind floods with the number of times Liz has told him that same thing. And leaning his head on the headrest, he closes his eyes against the bright streetlights that are currently burning holes right through his skull.

###

"Why didn't they give you crutches?" Samar asks, as she and Aram ably assist their limping Acting Director up to his apartment on the 4th floor.

"They prescribed them. I don't need them." His arm is over Aram's shoulder while Samar walks on his other side and throws him a disparaging look.

"Perhaps it's escaped your attention that you're currently leaning all over our resident computer geek in order to walk."

Ressler can't think of much to say to that. She does have a point. "I just need a good night's sleep," he informs them as he fishes his keys out of his pocket, supporting himself on his good leg and the doorframe.

"I don't think a few hours' sleep is going to cure THAT," Samar tells him, pointing to the elaborate brace that's strapping his right knee in place.

It's his turn to throw her the look.

As he opens the door and flips on the light, a small scruffy dog looks up at the trio, tail wagging furiously, beady eyes fixed on Ressler.

"Whoa!" Aram exclaims.

"I didn't know you had a dog," Samar echoes

Ressler looks at Hudson. "I don't."

###

Two hours later, Ressler is following doctors' orders. Almost. His leg is elevated while he's propped up on the bed, but he's not icing it. Mainly because he has no ice. A fact that has left his water rather lukewarm and naked. He is also out of beer. Which is probably just as well the way his concussed head is feeling.

A small square of paper is in his hand. The prescription he was handed as he was discharged from the ER, despite his protests. It's for 30 Oxy Contin. He's not going to fill it though. No damn way. And sick of looking at it and the memories it has stirred; he tosses it on his bedside table.

Ressler moves uncomfortably as his knee throbs in unison with his head. He's tried to sleep a few times, but it's not happening. Not with the double whammy of the pain in his head and a brain that won't let go of today's events. He's gone over the pursuit in his mind repeatedly and always comes back to Liz stepping out of the doorway. And it's certainly not lost on him that he was so preoccupied with looking AT her that he lost her.

If he hadn't have plowed into the car, he'd have got her. If she'd come in he could have helped her. But he doesn't yet have any evidence to clear her name, so it's a moot point. Does he only want her to come in for…personal reasons? He can't go there though.

She had been so close. SO damn close. Had almost reached him when Reddington whisked her out of the line of fire, so to speak. And yet as much as he wants her to come in, he begrudgingly acknowledges that Reddington is the only one who can protect her right now.

And so the cycle begins again as the two scenarios battle for prime position in his restless brain. And an hour later, the only consolation he has found is that the criminal was simply carrying out his protective duty today on the street.

Leaning over, he flips off the bedside lamp and throws a blanket over himself. He'll try to sleep again, though it's a futile exercise. Just as his eyes close and he settles back on several pillows propping up his shoulders and throbbing head, his phone rings.

"Damn." It's 12:39am. No one calls at this hour. He considers letting it ring, but he can't.

"Ressler," he answers tiredly.

"Ress."

He sits more upright in the bed, ignoring the flare of pain across his knee and head. "Liz."

"I can't talk long. I just wanted… just needed to see if you're okay. Are you…?"

"What? Oh, yeah. Banged up my knee. Got another concussion for the collection."

"But you're okay?"

He's not okay. Not even close. "Yeah, I'm fine." He knows she can't stay long. "Liz, come in. Please come in. Tell me where-"

"I can't. I have to go. I'm glad you're okay," she quickly tells him before the line goes dead.

It's the same feeling as a week ago. And here she is again, hanging up on him and still making him do this. His eyes close, but not in rest.

"Dammit, Liz," he whispers, slowly lowering the phone from his ear.

There is no chance of finding sleep after that. None at all.

###

Day 7

Ressler has finally found something good about having his own driver assigned to him. Despite doctors' orders that he not drive, he doesn't have to. All he needs to do is have his driver come get him.

Fifteen minutes later he's sitting in the passenger seat of the black SUV as his hand feels the square of paper in his pocket. "Pull in up here," he tells his driver who gives him a nod and complies without question.

He doesn't go to Hawthorne Pharmacy. He's well and truly worn out his welcome there with the woman who could fry an egg with one look. Exiting the car he limps to the pharmacy on his cane. The fact he's back on the cane is annoying the hell out of him. But at least he can get around and get to work.

As he hands over the prescription to the pharmacist, she asks for his ID, checks his driver's license and proceeds to fill the order. No questions asked. And seven minutes later a white bag is handed to him, containing a blue bottle of 30 Oxy. Discarding the bag in the trash can he then slips the bottle into his right pocket. For a moment he stands there leaning on his cane, feeling the bottle of pills in his pocket. The roller coaster has fired up and is moving slowly out onto the tracks. It doesn't mean he's going to jump on it though. And trying to shake the feeling off, he limps back outside and resumes his journey to the Post Office.

As the elevator opens he steadies himself on his cane and walks through the war room. He's not first in today. Aram and Samar turn from the board – the board with Liz's picture on it – to see him hobbling down toward them.

"What the… You really shouldn't be here," Samar tells him, walking toward him. She studies him as she stands closer. His eyes are red from pain and lack of sleep. "As a matter of fact, you look like hell. Sir." She emphasizes the 'sir'. Yet it's done in friendship, not disrespect. He knows she's having as much trouble adjusting to the fact he's now their boss as he is.

But she's right. He does look like hell and it's not just the lack of sleep, pain in his knee and the throbbing headache. It has a lot to do with the fact he has a bottle of pain pills in his right pocket. They're sitting there burning a hole in his pocket. He's sure everyone can see them. That everyone knows.

"Thank you," he tells her sarcastically, taking a step toward his office.

"You should be home resting," she tells him, standing before him with arms folded.

He gives her the look. Liz would be so proud. "I'm fine."

"Right." She steps aside to let him through as he continues to his office. "You know, crutches would still have been better," she calls to his back as he's walking away.

"I don't need them."

###

Day 10

Three days later Ressler discards the cane after the swelling in his knee drops considerably. The doctor advises him to start some light physical therapy. Just some gentle stretching and bending, while keeping a light compression sleeve on. But this doctor obviously didn't see Ressler as he was recovering after his shattered thigh.

Ressler doesn't do light physical therapy. It's not in nature, but he does acquiesce and put a compression sleeve on. And after a few test stretches in his apartment, he slips into running shoes and makes his way down to the street. It's evening, and by the light of the streetlights he begins to jog down his block. And realizes almost immediately that's a mistake. Pain flares in his knee at each jar of his foot on the pavement. And pulling up at the end of his block he stands, holding onto a light pole, panting hard.

"Shit." He has a long way to go before getting back in shape. It's too soon. The damn doctor is right after all. He leans on the lamp post for a couple of minutes, waiting for the pain to subside somewhat. He can already feel it swelling again, but perhaps that's his imagination. Flexing his leg a little he turns and walks back to his apartment. The steps give him some grief, but he's stubborn - as he's been told a thousand times - and makes it back upstairs.

Hudson is waiting behind the door as he opens it. "Yeah..." he says to the dog, "Someone didn't listen to the doc." The dog happily wags his tail at his voice, oblivious to the pain Ressler is in.

And hobbling past the little animal who falls in right behind him as he walks, he heads for the freezer for some ice to dump on his aching knee. And it's while he's sitting with his leg propped up on the couch covered in a bag of ice that his brain betrays him. It suddenly won't let him stop thinking of the 30 Oxy in the bathroom cabinet. He's resisted till now and it's been surprisingly not that difficult. But now his brain is making up for lost time, apparently.

He ignores it, keeps the ice on his knee and gets no sleep that night.

###

Day 21

Ressler has barely been at the Post Office for three minutes when he sees Reven Wright step out of the elevator. He's at the board, looking at the photos of Liz, the body of Tom Connolly, a photo of Reddington, and not much else. In three weeks, they've got very little to go on. There have been leads, but none have panned out.

He hasn't seen or heard from Liz since the night she called him after the car hit him. The fact she knows how to contact him but he doesn't know her number or location chips away at him. Reven Wright approaches as he stands at the board. He knows any second now she will call him away for a status report.

"Good morning, Agent Ressler. If you have a moment, I thought you might give me an update on where we are in the case."

Nailed it. "Yes ma'am."

She turns toward the staircase and he follows, feeling Samar and Aram's eyes burning into his back as he follows the woman. They know he has nothing new to report.

Inside Cooper's office – he refuses to call it his office – she sits at the desk as he stands before her.

"Anything new?" she asks, getting right to the point.

He shakes his head a little. "Not really. We did get some intel three days ago that Reddington had been seen just outside Paris, but by the time we arrived there was no sign of him. Or them, if Keen is with him.

"Are we still under the assumption that she is?" she asks, leaning back in the chair.

"We have no reason to believe otherwise. We have always believed it was Reddington who cut the power and facilitated her escape from here. We have to assume he will still go to any lengths to protect her," he reports, maintaining his FBI mask, yet hoping like hell Reddington is doing just that.

"So not much has changed. The press is having a field day with this, wanting the murderer of the Attorney General brought to justice. They can't believe we have nothing."

Ressler is well aware of the media coverage. It's died down somewhat compared to the first week, but he still can't bring himself to watch the reports when they come on. He drops his head and looks away.

"How sure are you that you can apprehend her?" she asks him.

It's a question he asks himself every day, but not in the same context as Reven Wright is asking now. He doesn't know. But in truth, he does know. He's positive that if he can't bring her in without evidence to clear her he will send her back to his silent partner in crime, Raymond Reddington.

He doesn't tell her that he spoke to her 15 days ago. That she had run toward him the day he was hit by the car. It wasn't picked up on the traffic camera feed. Something he had not believed when Aram steadfastly informed him of that fact. But he'd let it ride.

"I still believe we're the best team to achieve that goal. We know her. We know Reddington and some of his contacts. She's not going to get far and we will bring her in to face the charges." It's the right answer for the Acting Director to give. And he sounds pretty convincing.

"I don't think I need to remind you that your previous task force failed to bring in Reddington."

She doesn't. He simply looks at her and does not reply.

###

He's not sleeping well. At best he gets two hours a night, usually in spurts of 30 minutes here and there. Sleep has become his own personal battle ground. One of many he's been fighting since Liz ran three weeks ago. One that reached a new level on the night she called him and he lay awake all night staring at the ceiling.

It's been 11 days since he attempted to go running. He feels confident that he's waited long enough, that he's actually complied with a doctor for once and has done the required stretching and rehab each day. He changes into track pants instead of jeans and grabs his running shoes. Time for the feet to hit the pavement. Or the shit to hit the fan. One of the two.

Sitting in his living room, he puts his shoes on and flexes his knee. So far, so good. Hudson watches, eyes and ears alert to Ressler's every move. Ressler grabs his keys and opens the door to exit as Hudson sits expectantly just inside the door

"You wanna come?" he asks the little dog.

Hudson bounds out the door. Of course he does.

"Then don't complain to me if you can't make it back on those little legs."

And with his little shadow beside him, Ressler goes down in the elevator, out onto the street and toward the park several blocks away. It's night, around 11pm and cool after the warmth of the day. Testing the waters he jogs down the block, noting with satisfaction that his knee holds firm with very little pain.

He also notices that Hudson keeps up perfectly with him. Giving the dog a small smile, he jogs the rest of the way to the park and the two of them enter the gates and find the wide park footpath. And together the unlikely duo run under the park lights on a cool summer night. Ressler on long, lean legs that eat up the pavement. And Hudson, as fast as his little legs will carry him.

And for that brief moment in time, Ressler's brain is absorbed in the task of putting one foot in front of the other without straining his knee and doesn't dwell on the fact he's been sent out to hunt down his best friend.


	2. Chapter 2

Day 43

The red glare of the clock on the nightstand silently clicks over to 2:38am. Exhaling heavily, Ressler grimaces at it from his scrunched up pillow and shuts his eyes, painfully aware of how much his body needs sleep. Turning his back on the nagging clock, he rolls over in bed yet again, dragging the blanket with him. Yet moments later he tosses it aside as his upper body suffocates under its growing warmth. Unable to find comfort and rest his eyes open again.

"Let me sleep, dammit," he pleads, not knowing who he is begging but fervently wishing they'd listen.

Across the room two little ears prick up. The dog is asleep, but at the familiar voice his little tail still thumps gently on his blanket in recognition.

The one thing that had let him get some sleep in the past is becoming more and more desirable with each passing night. The bottle of pain pills sits in his bathroom cabinet in their designated place on the top shelf, mere feet from his tossing and turning. His brain, fully awake and in tune with the bottle of 30 pills goads him relentlessly. Just one pill. Just one pill and you can sleep. Just one pill. But it's NEVER just one pill. And stopping himself from physically raising his fists to punch some sense into himself, he swears that he is tossing that damn prescription down the toilet.

Tomorrow. He'll do it tomorrow.

Rolling again, he turns his back on the bathroom cabinet with its inventory of drug addiction relapse, only to face the clock that is now announcing it is 2:42am.

"Shit," he whispers.

Throwing the blanket off completely he leans forward cross legged, elbows on knees and palms thrust into his tired eyes. His bed has betrayed him. It once offered comfort, rest and so much more when Audrey came back. Sleeping beside her had calmed his soul. He had loved her, tasted her and reached for her in this very bed. But in the year and a half since Audrey has been gone, his bed has slowly ceased to have 'his side and her side'. Now it's all his in which to suffer nightmares and to pound at the disheveled sheets in fruitless pursuit of one good night's sleep.

But leaning forward with his head in his hands, he knows it's not the year and a half without Audrey that's currently keeping him awake.

It's the 43 days without Liz.

43 days since Liz killed Tom Connolly. 43 days since he begged her not to run. Begged her not to do this to him. 43 days since he'd been thrust into the unenviable position of Acting Director of a task force whose sole purpose was to hunt down his partner.

"Shit. Shit. SHIT!"

Hudson pops up his small head as Ressler springs out of bed and stomps toward the bathroom. And in a well-oiled ritual, perfected over the last 20 something nights, he flings open the bathroom cabinet and takes out the bottle of pills.

Opening the bottle, he taps out one pill onto his waiting hand, once again struck by how large he is and how small the pill is. And how much damn control it has over his mind. But for right now, his mind isn't going to win. Tossing the pill back in the bottle, he returns it to the cabinet. Closing the cabinet door, resisting the urge to slam it shut, he views his reflection in the mirror as sleepless eyes stare back at him under eyelids that droop. But he is not going to get on that damn rollercoaster again.

He steps from the bathroom, bypassing the bed and quickly dresses in track pants, tossing a clean t-shirt over them. Running shoes in hand, he sits on the bed as he dons them, regarding the now fully awake, scruffy canine in the corner.

"You comin'?"

Hudson doesn't need to be asked twice.

And with a resigned smile at the small dog, Ressler grabs his phone, his water bottle and keys and with Hudson padding beside him quietly leaves his apartment.

###

3:00am has apparently become Ressler's preferred time to run in the deserted park. Rarely does he see anyone else as his feet pound the footpath, the scratch of Hudson's claws keeping pace two steps to the left of him. If he can't lull his mind to rest in the bedroom he can manage a little better as he runs, one foot at a time eating up the pavement.

The moon is almost full, casting a glow so bright that faint shadows lay across the footpath in front of him. And as he runs, his mind inevitably returns again and again to the reason he's out here. To the reason he can't find more than a few exhausted hours of sleep a week.

_Don't make me do this._

She hadn't listened. She had hung up on him and made him do this. And in the absence of any Blacklisters coming down the pipeline from Reddington for the past month, Liz was their target.

Their only target.

He's fitter than he's been in almost a year and runs effortlessly. Leaner and stronger in just three weeks from the enforced running through the night in place of sleep. But it offers no consolation. His body may have changed for the better perhaps, but his mind is receding. Shutting out everything except his one task. To find Elizabeth Keen. His partner. His complicated best friend.

Beside him, Hudson drops back a little and recognizing the tiredness in his running mate, Ressler slows then stops at a park bench. Stretching his long legs out, he grips his toes and pulls back on his calf muscles while the little dog drops to the ground contentedly panting. Turning, he drops to the bench and uncaps his water bottle. The water feels good on his throat as he squirts it into his mouth. At his feet, Hudson stands as Ressler pours water into his cupped hand, lowering it as the little dog laps it up, spilling as much onto the grass. Absently, he rubs Hudson's head then leans back on the bench raising his head to the moon and trees above him.

"Where are you? Where the hell are you, Liz?"

It's a question he finds himself asking a dozen times a day. A dozen times a night. And there is never an answer. The 43 days he's hunted Liz seem like a lifetime, almost seeming longer than the five years he hunted Reddington. The difference is that this time he knows that his fugitive is not going to walk calmly into FBI Headquarters, drop to her knees in surrender and demand to speak only to him.

He checks the time on his phone as the white light illuminates his wayward hair falling onto his forehead. It's now 3:43am; only an hour since he gave up on sleep. Exhaling heavily he rises to his feet. His shadow is right beside him, tail wagging and ready to go again.

"Come on, little dude."

And the running resumes as he makes another two circuits of the park before he's ready to stop. He slows to a walk, takes another quick mouthful of water and heads toward the exit gates. Stepping in beside him, no leash necessary, Hudson accompanies him as he walks through the quiet streets and returns to his apartment. In the silence of the night, broken now by a few more cars on the road, Ressler walks. His need to run has abated for the night and his brain is calmer for the moment.

Letting himself in, the silence of the apartment closes in around him quickly. And with no reason to head back to bed he heads to the shower, shucking off his running clothes and dumping them into the laundry basket on his way through his bedroom. Showering and shaving quickly he then dresses in his suit and tie, becoming the consummate image of a poster boy FBI agent. But he's well aware looks can be deceiving. And while tying the knot on his tie he can't help but notice the bloodshot eyes staring back at him from the mirror. And finding none in the cabinet, remembers with a clench of his teeth that he'd meant to get more eye drops. Not only does he have that whole sleep deprivation vibe running through his muscles, now he looks the part. A fact he's sure Samar will point out to him today.

He makes his way to the kitchen through the dark apartment and prepares a single cup of coffee in the maker. In the white light of the kitchen, his eyes are firmly planted on the sheet of paper held in place by a small magnet on the fridge - a copy of Liz's FBI Wanted Poster. And no matter how many times he's seen it, part of him still can't believe it's real.

She stares back at him, unsmiling and businesslike. It's not her. It's the image from her ID badge, but it's not the Liz he knows. Not the Liz he saw in the street, soft and flowing and feminine, and the concern in her eyes as she ran to him. And yet it is her and in a familiar move the tip of his finger traces her cheek and lingers over her chin and lips.

"Dammit, Liz," he says softly, his bloodshot eyes boring into hers on the page as he drinks his coffee.

A small bark interrupts his thoughts and placing his coffee on the counter he steps to the pantry. Depositing a small can of something that once resembled turkey into Hudson's bowl he then tosses the empty can in the trash and eyes the small dog.

"You eat better than I do." Hudson merely wags his tail in reply as he tucks into his food with gusto.

"And you definitely sleep better."

It's barely 5:00am but he's ready and throwing his suit coat on as he walks to his front door, he looks back at the dog.

"No TV, stay off the couch and keep the booty calls to a minimum, got it?"

###

The Post Office is deserted but for a light on in an upstairs office near Coopers. He looks away. Near HIS office. Much to Reven Wright's annoyance, he simply refuses to make Cooper's office his own. Downstairs is where he's at home; in his own personal fortress of solitude at the desk he shares – shared – with Liz. Today is no different. As he enters his office and is greeted by her empty desk and chair his eyes drop. He needs her to be there. As if by some chance all of this is a dream and she will be sitting there one morning when he arrives. But it isn't a dream. It's a living nightmare.

And alone he prepares for the day, sitting at his computer by soft desk light and sipping on another coffee. Around an hour later the elevator whirs, announcing the arrival of some of his coworkers. Aram steps out, holding a to-go cup of coffee with satchel over his shoulder. Depositing it on his desk, he sits, getting his laptop fired up for the day.

As Ressler passes him on his way to another cup of coffee, Aram looks up. "Agent Ressler, good morning, sir," he says in welcome, fully aware of Ressler's new position within the team and trying his very best to afford the same respect he did Cooper. And looking away as Ressler continues to the break room, Aram glances upstairs. He misses Director Cooper. They all do.

Samar arrives five minutes later and makes a beeline for Aram. Eavesdropping on his colleagues has never been his thing, but as Samar lets out a soft laugh, Ressler's eyes shoot to Liz's side of their office. And giving up all pretense of looking up anything else on his computer he rises from his chair and before he knows it he's standing at Liz's vacant desk.

Even if and when he finds her, things can never be the same. He knows that. And that's what troubles him the most. The certainty that what they had –whatever the hell their complicated bond was - is gone. His fingers find the lip of the large drawer on her desk. Sliding it out, he half expects to see her large purse full of woman crap that she can't possibly live without sitting in there. But the drawer is empty.

Almost.

At the bottom of the drawer he spies something and reaches down, realizing what it is as soon as he brings it up onto her desk. A sketch book. Thumbing to the last sketch in the pad he opens it. It's been weeks since he's seen it, and the gasp catches in his throat. The most beautiful of drawings. The exact opposite to her Wanted poster. A memory of a moment they had, captured in pencil by an artist who is now buried on his own small island. He gazes at the image of himself and Liz close together in friendship and caring. As the memory of their time in the cave comes to the fore, he lowers his lean frame into her chair.

Keep your shit together, he admonishes himself and closes the sketch book.

"Dammit."

Moments later his office door opens after a rather useless knock to reveal Aram and Samar standing together, apparently waiting for permission to enter after they've already invited themselves in.

Ressler regards them silently for a moment before speaking to the duo who are most definitely up to something. "You got a lead?"

Samar skirts the question and approaches him, her dark eyes holding his decidedly bloodshot ones. "We're concerned."

He looks up at her, realizes he's still at Liz's desk and stands a little too quickly. "About what?"

"You."

"Me?"

"Yes."

He shakes his head, gives a small grimace as he momentarily looks away. "I'm fine," he says, facing her.

Samar folds her arms and leans a little closer. "I, as in 'we'," she motions to Aram beside her, "beg to differ. With all due respect, Ressler, you look like hell. Are you eating properly? When was the last time you really slept?"

He regards her. She's nailed it, just like Liz would have - if Liz was here. And despite the fact he's now technically their superior, to him they're still equals. Still work partners. But he doesn't appreciate them gate crashing his office to call mom duty on him. "I really don't think my sleeping habits are-"

She's not having it, and leans closer. "It doesn't take a rocket scientist, or an IT guy, to see that you're struggling," Samar presses, determined to get her colleague to open up a little even if he is her new Director. "You were sitting at her desk."

Ressler's eyes fall on the closed sketch book on Liz's vacant desk. He can't argue with that one. "Look. Is there a point to this?" he asks, his hands finding his hips as he looks from Samar to Aram standing before him.

Aram finally steps forward out of Samar's shadow. "We just want you to know that...aaahh, we're all in this together."

Samar nods in confirmation. "We miss her too. It's tough, having to look for her as if she's a...common criminal."

"Well, she did shoot…" Aram starts to point out, then thinks better of it and shuts up as Samar's admonishing eyes turn to him. "But, we do have something," he adds, standing up straighter and sincerely wanting to change the subject.

"We got a hit on one of Reddington's associates," Samar elaborates, looking toward Ressler whose eyes narrow as he grimaces.

"And you're just telling me this NOW?" he asks, teeth clenching in his jaw. "What have you got?" Ressler steps past them before dropping Liz's sketch book carefully in his own lower drawer.

Saram turns to face him at his own desk, "Max Ruddiger."

"Mr Reddington visited him in rehab in Dresden, Germany this morning," Aram elaborates, watching Ressler's eyes looking up at them from furrowed brows as he leans on his desk.

"And you waited this long to tell me that?" Ressler repeats.

Aram's eyes seek out Samar before sliding back to Ressler as he slams the drawer on his desk. "Um, yes. Samar thought… Well, it's no problem though. I have you and Samar on the next flight to Dresden. Plane is wheels up in 40."

Ressler glares at him, oblivious to the fact that his actions and mannerisms are clearly adding fuel to the fire of his colleagues concerns. "Right answer."

Lightly shoving Aram in front of her out the door Samar turns her head to Ressler. "I'll get my stuff and meet you at the elevator."

###

Five minutes later Ressler walks to the elevator as Samar joins him, only to see the yellow metal door slide up to reveal Reven Wright stepping out to greet him.

Ressler's heart sinks as he stifles an impromptu groan. He's never going to get out of here. He respects the woman. Respects her position. But right now he doesn't have the time or the desire to give her a status report.

"Agent Ressler. A moment of your time, please?"

Resisting the urge to shove the woman out of his way he looks at her with his composed mask firmly in place. "Yes, ma'am."

"We'll forego the office this time. Step over here," she tells him, moving to an empty room near the elevator.

As Samar takes a few steps back to Aram, Ressler follows Reven Wright to the room, quickly glancing at his watch and scowling behind the woman's back.

Closing the door he drops his bag to the floor and faces her across a small table and chairs. It's an interrogation room, he notices. And can't help but feel that's very relevant with the look on his superior's features as she turns to face him, her arms folded.

"Agent Ressler, it has come to my attention that you are still personally attending to each and every lead we have had on Elizabeth Keen. May I remind you that as Acting Director your position demands that you remain here and oversee the task force."

Ressler grits his teeth, glances away, then raises his chin and looks at the woman. "Ma'am, my job, as you appointed by you is to find Elizabeth Keen. And that's what I'm doing."

"If I need a status report, I can't very well go running off to find you in some foreign country. Your predecessor knew this. Director Cooper was always available."

"Yes ma'am, but I am not Director Cooper. I AM a field agent."

"You have a task force to do the field work," she reminds him, taking a step forward.

Ressler's mask slips, and he suddenly has no interest in putting it back in place. "What task force? Keen is gone. Cooper has been benched. Reddington's list has dried up." He points behind him toward the war room. "I have one field agent. One IT guy."

"Then I can assign another agent or two to your team," she bristles, clearly wanting to keep the upper hand.

The last thing Ressler needs or wants are new agents who know nothing about Liz searching for her. But Wright is his boss and is waiting on an answer. "That is your call, ma'am." He glances at his watch. "Now if you'll excuse me, I have a plane waiting."

He doesn't wait for her to answer as he picks up his overnight bag. Exiting the room he strides down the hallway to the elevator to find Samar standing by it waiting for him.

"Let's go," he tells her curtly.

She can clearly see he's not a happy camper. As the elevator doors open she considers asking if everything is okay, then remembers he is her Director after all and what transpires between him and Reven Wright is private. She opts for the safe route. "So what's the plan in Dresden?"

Steadfastly facing the elevator doors, he checks his watch again. "I doubt Reddington is anywhere near the rehab facility now. When we there tracking Tom Keen he made mention of a hotel that he likes staying at when in Dresden," he tells her, glad to get his mind back on the task at hand, looking sideways to her as she nods.

As the elevator doors open they step out to the waiting vehicle where Ressler's driver is standing beside it, much to Ressler's annoyance. He might be Acting Director but he's still capable of driving himself. Dropping his eyes from the driver, he continues. "So, we'll get a car and stake the place out."

And as he gets in the passenger seat of the car, Ressler is torn once again. He both wants and yet doesn't want to find Liz in Dresden. He doesn't have any information on the Cabal to clear her.

Yet he needs to see her. Needs her to be there. For his own personal reasons.


	3. Chapter 3

Day 44

They've been sitting in the car in Dresden for an hour as the street lights come on around them and the city settles in for the night. It's a beautiful city, full of ornate buildings and rich history and they're parked in the heart of it. But Ressler barely notices and doesn't say much to Samar, and while it's not a completely uncomfortable silence, it's not like sitting quietly in a car with Liz. He never takes his eyes off the entrance to the large hotel across the street that's taking up the entire block.

"Well, its got Reddington written all over it," Samar offers, apparently realizing her companion is going to remain silent for the duration of their stake out.

Ressler simply nods. It does. A former palace, now named the Grand Hotel Taschenbergpalais according to the gold name plate, the building is steeped in Royal history. Typical that Reddington would opt to stay in such digs. At least the man is consistent.

"I have a question," Samar asks Ressler, glancing at him before returning her eyes to the hotel.

"If it's about my eating and sleeping habits, you can forget it," he answers, wondering if she's going to resume her concerned pep talk.

"Not that, no. If she's here with Reddington, are you going to take her in?" she asks quietly.

He doesn't hesitate as his rote reply rolls straight off his tongue. "It's my job as head of the task force and what I've been assigned to do."

"Right. I'll ask you again. Are you going to take her in?"

Ressler slowly turns to face her and doesn't answer at first. If he takes her in now they'll eat her alive. He hasn't found enough evidence – any evidence - to clear her name. But hell, how does he clear her name when she clearly killed Tom Connolly. He needs to somehow find evidence that Tom Connolly was part of the Cabal and Liz was acting in the interests of National Security. And here is the crux of his problem. In order to save her, he must appear to be on her tail hunting her to ensure that no one else catches her first. Yet in reality, the two times he's seen her as she's running, he's either let her go or Red has taken her. And he knows that Samar knows this.

"We don't know she's here with Reddington," he tells her, side stepping her question.

Samar watches the indecision behind his darting eyes, clear even in the glow of the streetlights near their parked car. "You love her."

It's a simple statement. Three words, yet there is so much behind that sentiment. He looks away quickly, licking his bottom lip. Hearing it said out loud catches him off guard. Yet he doesn't answer. Doesn't deny it.

She smiles a sad smile, suppresses the urge to place her hand on his arm and looks back at the hotel. "I'm sorry. I can't imagine…" She doesn't finish the sentence.

He knows what she can't imagine. They return to their silent vigil. It's easier.

###

"Is that-"

"Yes!" Ressler replies, grabbing the two way radios off the dash.

The car that dropped him off at the hotel has now pulled away but the coat and fedora, and that two handed way he has of positioning it on his head are unmistakable. Reddington has arrived.

Quickly tossing Samar her two way radio he opens his car door and runs straight for the hotel entrance. Sprinting through the traffic, he doesn't want a repeat of his last foot chase and darts more carefully through the cars. But despite his care, a screech of brakes near him is still evidence of his path across the street as he jumps at the last second, sliding nimbly across the hood of a car that has stopped abruptly to avoid hitting him.

Samar follows him, running across the wide street in her attempt to catch up with Ressler. He's in single minded pursuit of his quarry though and doesn't look back at her.

Flying through the pillars adorned with cherubs and past the hotel doormen, Ressler enters the ornate lobby, searching quickly with his eyes. Reddington is nowhere in sight. Samar comes in beside him. "Take those stairs! Search that side of the hotel then head up to the 5th floor!" he tells her, leaving her now and running for the large stairs to his left as she veers off to the right. He takes the stairs three at a time, flying past bewildered tourists coming down to the lobby for sedate dinners and civilized cocktail hours.

He arrives quickly on the 2nd floor. But one look at these rooms tells him everything he needs to know.

He knows Reddington. He won't be on these lower level rooms. He'll be in the upper echelons with the dignitaries. Resuming his hurtling run up the stairs he bypasses the third and fourth levels and reaches the 5th floor. He slows, looking at the names on the rooms. What had Reddington called it? They'd been sitting in the car waiting for Tom Keen to show and Red had waxed lyrical about the Prince suite, or some such royal name. Jogging past the rooms he spies it at the end of the hall. The Crown Prince Suite. And it's huge, judging by the distance to the next room. He quickly lifts his radio and calls Samar.

"It's on this side of 5! Head for the suites!"

"What?!" she replies, her breathing telling him she's on the stairs while her radio momentarily cuts out, losing signal in the stairwell.

"Fifth floor! Crown Prince Suite!" he yells at her, then drops his radio to his pocket and draws his weapon. The hallway is deserted as he runs the final few yards to the door. Reaching for the brass knob he turns it but of course it's locked. He takes a few steps back. And as he's running at it, about to barge into it and probably wreck his shoulder in the process, the door opens.

Reddington stands there, a bemused smile on his features as Ressler almost crashes right into him, grasping at the doorframe to stop himself hurtling into Red at the last second.

"What the hell, Reddington?!"

"Donald, you really should learn how to knock. Doors worldwide would rejoice."

Ressler recovers and scowls at the criminal as he hoists his sidearm again. "Where is she?!" he barges in past Reddington to stand in the huge living room. The empty living room.

Red ignores his question. "Well, I was about to ask if you'd like to come in…" he asks congenially, turning as movement catches his eye in the hallway. "Aaahh, Agent Navabi. How lovely to see you, my dear."

Samar is watching Red warily, keeping her gun drawn as she enters the room at a distinctly slower pace than Ressler had before her, as Red closes the door behind her.

Finishing his cursory sweep of the suite after checking each room, Ressler grits his teeth in frustration. Liz isn't here. He nods to Samar to lower her weapon as he comes back into the large living room, holstering his sidearm. Red sits down on a plush recliner, crossing his legs comfortably as he motions for them to sit.

"Donald. Agent Navabi. So glad you were able to follow the breadcrumbs I laid out for you," he smiles at them.

Samar sits down slowly on a couch on Red's right. "You wanted us to find you?"

Red simply smiles in reply and takes a sip of his wine from the small end table.

Ressler doesn't sit down; choosing instead to stand at the window to Red's left. He grits his teeth and faces the criminal. "Why do you do this? Why not just pick up the damn phone if you have something to tell me?"

"Because Donald, the walls have ears, so to speak. Well, not here in this fine establishment. I mean in your end of the playpen."

Ressler leaves the window and approaches, hands on hips, regarding the man. "Where is she?"

Once again, Reddington doesn't give him an answer. Ressler shakes his head as he looks at the man.

"Why did you deliberately lead us here?" Samar asks him, leaning back on the couch. "Ressler is right, couldn't this have been done on the phone if you're just wanting to talk?"

Red smiles, but there is something behind the eyes that Ressler sees momentarily. Red is hiding something. Ressler looks away, rolling his eyes. When is Reddington ever not hiding something?

"Because then, my dear, we wouldn't be able to sit and dine in this beautiful hotel. It is rather lovely, don't you think?"

Ressler looks at him, still refusing to sit down. "We didn't take time to admire the decor on the way up here."

Red laughs out loud. "Oh, Donald, I've missed you and your sardonic wit."

###

"Walter, thank you." The waiter leaves, having laid out their meal in the large dining room of the suite. Ressler looks around at the spread on the large redwood table. This isn't like room service he's used to, perched on the end of a bed in a cheap motel, eating food off a plastic tray.

Ever the gentleman, Red holds the chair for Samar as she sits. "Donald, for goodness sake sit down. You're making the natives restless."

Scowling, having searched the suite more slowly and still not coming up with anything pointing to Liz, he reluctantly sits at the table. Red is at the head, naturally, while he and Samar sit across from each other, either side of him.

Samar eyes her meal appreciatively. "What is this?"

"Ravioli of Oberlausitzer Duck," says Red, smiling broadly at her. "A specialty of Chef Joerg's. Dig in, my dear." He looks to Ressler. "You too, Donald. You're thinner. Eat up."

Ressler is waiting for it. Some quip about the menu and his name. But either Red is slipping or has something else on his mind, because it doesn't come. Ressler picks up his fork, then places it back on his plate. He can't eat anything with the way his stomach is churning.

"Where is she?" he asks their host for a third time. And this time, he's not going to let Red get out of it. "And I want an answer."

Laying his knife and fork down, Red turns his eyes to meet Resslers. And this time there is no humor. No beaming smile.

And Ressler suddenly understands, his heart sinking. "You don't know where she is, do you?"

"She left two days ago. She won't answer my calls," he tells them, and shrugs, taking another mouthful of his meal before dabbing at his mouth with his napkin. "I thought she might come out for you."

Ressler looks at him, tilting his head a little. "For me? You know I have to take her back in. She knows that too."

"Yes, I know that is your job, Donald." He holds Ressler's eyes before the agent looks away uncomfortably. They both know that's his job. They both know he's struggling with carrying it out.

"If you don't know where she is, how the hell do you expect her to know I'm here?" Ressler asks him.

"Well, I didn't say it wasn't a long shot. But what I can tell you is that as of 48 hours ago she was with me in Amsterdam."

"Holland? You do get around," Samar tells him, taking a sip of her wine.

"What were you doing there?" asks Ressler.

"Donald, it might surprise you to hear that we're actually all on the same side. Well, apart from that minor inconvenience we have with Lizzie having murdered Connolly and you needing to hand her over to the powers that be," he quips, watching Ressler's response carefully.

Ressler grits his teeth not appreciating the attempt at humor when it concerns that.

Red continues, "But our task is basically the same as yours. To find information on the Cabal that will in turn clear Lizzie's name and stop her needing to run."

"How's that working out for you? Because we're not getting very far in that regard," Ressler asks him.

Reddington shrugs disconsolately. "About the same as you, I'm afraid." He looks to Ressler kindly. "But Donald, these things take time."

Ressler's eyes drop to his uneaten meal. Time. It's been 44 days now. He pushes back from the table and stands, looking at Red. He's about to say more, but decides to let Samar eat in peace and turns back toward the living room. Reddington doesn't know where she is. And he was so sure that Red would know, he'd put up with his bullshit and waited around while Red insisted he feed them. But now there is no reason to stay here. He's looking out the window at the city lights when he hears Red's shoes on the wooden floor behind him.

"When was the last time you slept?"

Ressler doesn't look at him. "Oh, not you too," he scowls, shaking his head.

Red continues, despite Ressler's dismissal. "Because at the risk of stating the obvious; you look like hell. I'm concerned."

"Don't make out you care a damn about me," Ressler tells him shortly still continuing to look out the window. He'd let Liz run so that Reddington would protect her. And now the man doesn't even know where she is.

Red looks away. Ressler doesn't see the sudden flash of hurt in his eyes. But Samar does as she comes from the dining room to join them.

Immediately regretting his remark, recalling past experiences that have clearly shown differently when it comes to himself and Reddington, Ressler looks at the criminal. "Look, I appreciate the 48 hour old tip, but if you can't tell me where she is right now then we need to get out of here," Ressler adds, motioning to Samar that it's time to go. It really wouldn't pay to be seen socializing with Reddington when they're meant to be hunting him and his protégé.

But he also just needs to be out of the room and away from Reddington, feeling the first fingers of borderline panic stirring within him. It's becoming a familiar feeling; one which would be quelled immediately with a damn pain pill from his bathroom cabinet. He immediately shoves the thought aside, but does console himself with the fact that the pills are STILL in the bathroom cabinet on the other side of the Atlantic and not residing in his right pocket. He turns from the window and steps past Samar quickly. "I'll wait for you outside," he tells her, barely glancing at Red as he exits the suite.

Closing the door quickly behind him, he begins pacing outside the door, his feet unable to stay still. With the right location and attire he'd be running. But given the close proximity of the guests and the real possibility he might get hauled off in a straight jacket by security, he clenches his fists, forces himself to stand still and does not run.

Inside the suite Reddington touches Samar's arm as she's leaving. "Watch him. He is not in a good place."

She nods and reassures him quietly. "I know. We are."

###

Their drive to the airport is silent, each alone with their own thoughts. As Ressler parks the car near the hangar housing the FBI jet that is being taxied out onto the tarmac, Samar feels the need to say something to her superior. Ressler doesn't notice and exits the vehicle to retrieve his bag from the trunk.

Coming to stand beside him after collecting her own bag, Samar looks up at him. "Are you okay?"

His eyes meet hers, more bloodshot than they were this morning. "Yeah. Why?"

"You seem…" she stops. "I mean, I know this wasn't easy."

"All part of the job. You get leads and follow them and only about 20% of them ever pan out," he tells her. And suddenly it's three years ago and he's telling Bobby Jonica the exact same thing. His heart misses a beat at that.

Ressler's phone rings. He fishes it out of his pocket, not recognizing the caller ID. "Probably Reddington inviting us for breakfast," he tells Samar, and she flashes a quick smile at him, glad to see there is some sense of humor left in him as he answers the phone.

"Ressler."

The change is night and day. His eyes light up with a longing, distant look. The change in his voice is palpable. Samar knows immediately who is on the phone. And it isn't Reddington.

Ressler turns away from Samar, phone firmly to his ear; heart hammering in his chest at the sound of her voice. "Where are you?"

"I can't tell you that."

He scowls into the phone. "And you can't tell Reddington either?"

"Not right now. But I know you saw him tonight," she says, and he wonders how she knew. Had Reddington been lying after all?

"Dammit, Liz," he curses, "Just tell me where you are."

"I'm following up a lead on the Cabal."

"I know what you're doing, Liz. I need you to come in," he tells her, knowing she's not listening.

"I can't, I-" she stops as he hears the hitch in her breath.

"Are you alright?"

She pauses. "Yes... no… I don't know."

His eyes search the night sky, looking but not seeing. His focus is only on her voice. "Liz. It's ME. Let me help you. I can't help you if you don't come in."

"I can't do that."

"Then I will come to you. We can talk. Just tell me where you are," he tells her, begging her to listen.

"I wish… I wish that were possible, Ress."

At the sound of her voice saying his name in the familiar way she has, he drops his head and closes his eyes. It's more than he can bear. "Liz. Please."

She's upset. He hears her crying. "I can't. Not yet. Not until I find more information."

"Why did you call?" he asks her quietly, head bowed as he presses the phone close to his ear to hear her more.

The hitch in her breath intensifies. His eyes are closed listening to her cry in his ear. "Liz…" he whispers. If she was near him his arms would be around her in comfort. She waits so long to reply he doesn't think she's going to.

"I just needed... I needed to hear your voice," she finally sobs.

And hangs up.

Ressler stands there a moment longer, knowing she's gone but not willing to take the phone from his ear just yet. The plane is waiting. He turns his head slightly to see Samar walking up the steps, having given him some privacy.

"I did too," he says softly to the night sky as he lowers his phone slowly, knowing she cannot hear him.


	4. Chapter 4

Day 45

The elevator doors open as they are standing at Aram's desk, looking up at the monitors. And at the sight of who is stepping out of the yellow box, Ressler's heart skips a beat. Reven Wright and Lloyd, the newly appointed Deputy Attorney General are walking toward them. But that's not who is eyes focus on, after giving them a cursory once over. Harold Cooper is walking behind them, keeping in step with them. One look at his face tells Ressler that this isn't a social call.

Ressler looks down, his eyes darting.

"Director Cooper!"

Cooper nods and gives Aram a grim smile, further cementing Ressler's disquiet at this impromptu meeting of the upper ranks.

"Agent Ressler," Reven Wright addresses him. "In your office, if you please."

Ressler glances at Samar and Aram as he raises his head to meet Wright's hardened gaze. "Yes, ma'am," he answers, noting that the posse is approaching his downstairs office and have foregone the upstairs official office.

As he enters behind them, Lloyd, the Deputy Attorney General speaks to him. "Close the door."

Ressler does so, feeling his heartbeat increasing. This isn't good. Cooper is standing back toward Liz's desk as he turns back to the group. "What's this about?" he asks, but feels it's likely about Dresden. He's already filed his report and Wright would have read it hours ago.

Reven Wright faces him. "As you well know, there are certain requirements that must be met to fulfill the position of Director."

"Yes ma'am," he answers quickly. She's about to tear strips off him for going to Dresden and not sending his field agents, for sure. But he's got his answer ready. There is no way Reddington would have allowed any other agents near him but himself and Samar.

"You have not met those requirements."

Ressler raises his head, feeling more confident now. "Ma'am, in order to obtain the information we got on Keen in Dresden, it had to be myself and-"

Wright holds her hand up, stopping him. "Agent Ressler. This is not about Elizabeth Keen. This is about you."

Ressler looks at her steadily and exhales slowly as warning bells sound in his brain.

"I have an unpleasant duty to perform," Reven Wright says, folding her arms before her, almost in a defensive pose.

Ressler is silent as he watches the woman before he glances to a stone faced Cooper. But the eyes give it away. Underneath that quiet demeanor, his former boss is highly uncomfortable.

The Deputy Attorney General speaks up. "Agent Ressler, my predecessor, Tom Connolly, had disturbing information that has just come to light. It gives me no pleasure to speak of it here, with your background and history with the Bureau."

Ressler grits his teeth, waiting for the obvious hammer that is about to fall.

Wright steps forward, facing him squarely. "We have credible information that you have an addiction to pain medication. Oxy Contin, to be exact."

Ressler gasps as his eyes dart to his top desk drawer. His heart drops to his stomach yet still he gives the impression he's regained his composure with the woman, slapping his mask firmly in place again as she continues.

"Is this information correct?" she asks.

Ressler stands completely still. If he moves, he's afraid he might run and he can't risk that. "Yes and no."

"Yes and no?" Wright asks quickly. "Have you at any time carried out your duties as a special agent for the Bureau while under the influence of a narcotic?"

He could lie and fight this. He could deny it and stand his ground. But he doesn't. "Yes, ma'am."

Behind them Cooper moves. Ressler meets Cooper's eyes and is sure they are glistening. He looks away sharply and focusses back on Wright.

"Are you under the influence of a narcotic at this moment?" Wright asks as she leans slightly on the dual desks.

"No, ma'am." His reply is quick and decisive. Finding the back of his chair, he grips it hard, crumpling the shoulders of his suit jacket in the process. He looks down, unable to meet their eyes for the moment.

Wright speaks to him evenly. "Agent Ressler," she waits for him to look up at her before she continues, "your position as Acting Director is hereby terminated. Agent Cooper will resume his former role."

Ressler nods. It's the only option the woman has. "Yes, ma'am."

Lloyd steps up, raising his voice. "And furthermore, your position as a Special Agent is over. Effective immediately, your services are hereby terminated with the Bureau."

Cooper turns away.

Ressler's head shoots to the Deputy Attorney General.

Barely able to take a breath through the constriction in his chest, he quickly pulls out his chair and sits heavily. The hammer has fallen. He stares at his desk a moment before his eyes raise to find Wright standing closer. But there is no malice in her features. She hasn't found any satisfaction in this turn of events. He appreciates that more than she will ever know.

"Ma'am, I," his voice cracks very slightly. He clears his throat as Cooper turns back to face him. "I apologize for letting you down." But he's not addressing her. His eyes slide to Cooper behind her who is looking at his former lead agent. He hasn't said a word and has let Wright and Lloyd lead this.

"Your badge and gun, Ressler," says Lloyd, making it abundantly clear he has immediately dropped the 'Agent' from Ressler's title as he holds out his hand to take them.

And as if it's happening to someone else, Ressler rises from his chair and unclips his holster from under his suit jacket then unpins his badge from his belt. Yet he refuses to give them to the man, opting instead to deposit them on his desk. He places them on top of files he was working on, near his pen and coffee cup. His eyes slide from them to the top drawer of his desk. The former drug stash. The drawer he spent hours agonizing over. He's suddenly aware Lloyd is speaking to him, and slowly raises his head to the man.

"Phone too. It has sensitive information and contacts on it."

Ressler removes it slowly from his pocket and drops it on the desk beside his ID badge.

"You will be escorted from the premises. Any personal belongings can be taken now or will be forwarded on to your address."

Apart from his go bag, he doesn't have any personal belongings in his office. Something he's never really thought about until now. No photos on his desk. No 'World's Best Husband' coffee mug. No baby pics of the child he would have had. Silently he retrieves his wrinkled suit jacket from the back of his chair and slips it on. His belt feels naked under it.

"Agent Ressler." Apparently Wright hasn't got used to the fact that title no longer applies. "This hasn't been easy for any of us. I am sorry it has come to this. You've been an exemplary agent and an asset to the Bureau. I thank you for your service."

Ressler nods, blinks quickly and looks away.

"We'll escort you out," she says almost kindly, "and have a driver take you home."

Again he nods silently.

He's about to leave when he realizes he DOES have something he needs from this office. Something he's not going to leave behind.

"Wait," he says hoarsely and steps by her to Liz's desk and quickly opens the top right hand drawer. It's still there, lying empty and used in her top drawer. A symbol of something and someone special and of a first date with a woman who has now gone. Ripped from him along with everything else in his life. He takes the empty bottle of wine from her desk and closes the drawer.

Cooper silently reaches out a hand to his arm, but Ressler shrugs it off quickly. Not here. Not now. He'll lose it completely.

Ignoring the puzzled look from Lloyd, Ressler returns to his desk and deposits the bottle inside his go bag. And finally, he opens his lower desk draw, retrieves Conrad's sketch pad and then stands tall and nods to them, blinking hard.

As he steps out of his office for the last time, Wright and Lloyd come and stand either side of him outside the door. He's unsure what he's supposed to do. Lloyd takes the indecision away as he takes hold of Ressler's upper arm and begins to walk toward the elevator, deliberately leading him past his coworkers. The only thing missing are handcuffs. Head down, it's obvious he's being led out against his will.

Agents stand up from their desks to watch their passage, realizing something has gone terribly wrong. Wright is on the other side of him, falling in beside him. Ressler barely sees them and can only concentrate on putting one foot in front of the other as his chest threatens to stop his very breathing with the tightness.

It's a walk he's taken a thousand times. To and from the yellow elevator. He almost knows how many steps. Could do it blindfolded to reach his office. But now, with the Deputy Attorney General hauling him along and Reven Wright on the other side of him, it's the longest, hardest walk of his life. Every step takes him further from his office. From his work. From the Bureau. From his colleagues.

From the office he once shared with his best friend.

He entered the Post Office this morning, just like every other morning as Special Agent Donald Ressler. He exits the facility now as Don Ressler, disgraced former government agent.

As they reach the elevator the guards stand aside and let them through. The yellow metal door slides up and arm still held by Lloyd, he's led inside the box. He turns in the box to face the doors. His last view is of Cooper standing in the war room with Aram and Samar either side of him. Aram is shaking his head in horror. Samar is crying as her fingers press to her face.

And Cooper, the hardest, fairest, yet kindest boss Ressler has ever known raises his arms out in support and comfort to Aram and Samar at his side. His eyes never leave Ressler.

Cooper is the last person Ressler sees as the doors close.

###

He doesn't remember being driven home. Seemingly one minute he's rising in the elevator from the Post Office and the next he's stepping out of another elevator. Yet now he's on the 4th floor of his apartment building and somewhere in between the two elevators he was driven home by his driver. But now he doesn't have a driver anymore.

After a battle with the door key with hands that refuse to stop shaking, he enters his apartment, closes the door behind him and leans heavily back against it. Hudson is dancing around his feet, narrowly missing being hit by Ressler's overnight bag as it slips from his hands. Moments later his legs buckle and he's dropping, sliding down the door to sit on the floor with knees raised. Heart hammering in his chest, he leans back against the door as his breath hitches in his throat.

Warm tears roll silently down his cheeks. He's unaware tears are even falling as his fingers run through his hair, grasping it hard as he trembles. The urge to scream rises, but he can't make a sound through a throat that has now tightened unbearably.

Hudson leans against him. But he's is barely aware the little dog is there, as his tears force their way from under hands that are now pressed to his face.

###

Sometime later the sun has set and his tears finally stop flowing. Leaning back on the door as he trembles in numb silence, he stares at his ceiling through red rimmed eyes. Movement against his thigh catches his attention, and as he looks down he sees Hudson leaning his little head on him. As soon as Resslers eyes meet Hudsons the dog climbs onto his lap. Ressler doesn't stop him. Instead he embraces him, holds the dog close and slowly his breathing and heart rate calm.

The sun has set, bringing darkness to the apartment but still Ressler can't bring himself to get up off the floor. Hudson is asleep in his lap. And as he's leaning back on the door, there is a knock on the other side, startling him and waking the dog.

He doesn't move. He's not sure he can rise. But when the knock comes again, Hudson jumps down and Ressler climbs slowly to his feet, turns and looks through the peephole. He's not up to company. But a second knock comes and he opens the door.

Samar and Aram stand there awkwardly. He realizes he hasn't invited them in and silently steps aside. Almost tripping over his overnight bag he slides it and the sketch book behind him and holds the door open for them.

Aram is carrying a large pizza and looking for somewhere to set it. Ressler points him to the living room, then realizes the place is almost pitch black making it obvious he's been sitting in the dark. Samar turns and flips the light on and gets a good look at Ressler. Dressed in his crumpled suit with loosened tie and shirt unbuttoned he faces her silently, but the swollen, bloodshot eyes, tousled hair and visible trembling tell it how it is.

As soon as he's closed the door, arms are around him. Samar hugs him tight, whispering in his ear. "I'm sorry. We're so sorry." And she's crying, dammit and about to start him off again. He nods, unable to speak. He knows they are. Aram has come back and stands to the side, unsure what to do.

"I'm sorry…" he says, shifting uncomfortably on his feet.

Samar slowly lets him go, wipes the tears from her cheeks and pats his arm as he motions to the living room. He sits on his couch, while Samar sits beside him and Aram takes the single chair. The pizza sits on the coffee table before them.

"I wasn't sure what kind of pizza you like. I got Three Meat," Aram tells him.

There is no way pizza is ever going to make it down his throat, but Ressler nods. "It's fine, thanks." His voice sounds foreign to him. Strangled and tight. "There's um…" he stops. Starts again. "…beer in the fridge, if you want."

Samar rises to get them, bringing back three beers, some plates and paper towels. Ressler can't eat the pizza, but he does open the beer and take a sip.

They sit in silence for a minute as Samar and Aram eat their pizza and Ressler takes a few sips of beer.

Putting her plate down on the coffee table, Samar looks at him, turning slightly on the couch to face him. "No one would tell us. When we asked Cooper, he said it wasn't his place to say," she tells him. "I'm not asking you to tell us. I'm just letting you know that no one knows."

The well kept secret could remain a secret. Speculation would run rampant, but no one really would know. The questions would fly around the Post Office. What did Ressler do? Why was he terminated? The rumor mill would run full speed ahead, and no doubt already was. He does not have to tell them.

"I'm a drug addict."

It's out. He's said it. Yet compared to the hurt he is feeling right now, the words are hollow and hold little meaning.

Aram's head shoots up.

Samar's hand is on his arm. "Ressler..."

"Not heroin or any of that shit. Pain pills," he continues, gazing at the floor between his feet. Telling them feels therapeutic in a strange way. "Haven't taken any for months though."

"And they still fired you even though you're not…using now?" Samar asks, stumbling over the terminology regarding the incomprehensible image of a drug addicted Ressler.

Ressler doesn't reply. They already know that answer.

"Agent Ress-"

"I'm not an agent anymore," he fires back at Aram then looks up at the man in apology, shaking his head.

"Um, I'm sorry. I…I'm just wondering if there is more to it. Is it because we haven't found Liz?"

The thought has occurred to Ressler but he can't verbalize it right now. "I don't know." He takes another sip of his beer and hangs his head as he leans forward on the couch, elbows on his knees.

Samar hands another slice of pizza to Aram, then looks back to Ressler. "I know you haven't had time to process this, but any idea what you might do?"

He has had time to think about that though, in the three hours he sat on the floor. "Maybe get out of town. Go up to my cabin," he shrugs.

Samar nods. "Will you keep in touch? Please?"

He nods, yet wonders what the hell he would – or wouldn't - be doing that they would find interesting. He doesn't tell them he no longer has a phone. It's easier to just go with the flow.

Samar looks to Aram and motions to the door slightly. As they stand, Ressler rises from the couch, and places his barely touched beer on the coffee table. Samar leans into him and gives him a one armed hug. "Take care. And try and get some sleep. You look…exhausted."

They head for the door as Ressler stands back, Hudson coming up beside him.

"We'll leave you the rest of the pizza," Aram offers and despite the fact he's just lost everything, Ressler manages a half smile at that.

###

Two hours later, Ressler suddenly can't sit still. He's on the couch when it starts and like ants crawling through his muscles, he has to move. Springing up, he paces as two beady eyes watch from the corner of the room. Tension is rising, gripping his heart like a vice. He has to run. He has to get out of here. At the sight of him putting his running shoes on, Hudson knows the drill and is right there.

But Ressler ignores him. Gets up, grabs his keys and shuts the door, leaving Hudson inside. Three minutes later he's running down the stairs of his apartment in running shoes, track pants and t-shirt, too antsy to even take the elevator. Sprinting from the building he descends the steps and turns toward the park, running on the footpath. Entering the park he hurtles along the footpath, trying to outdistance himself from the thoughts that won't let up in his head.

As his feet fly along the concrete eating up the distance to the next curve, his mind is racing. He got fired. He's not an FBI agent anymore. He doesn't have to get up and go to work in the morning. And the speed increases as he runs, startling those running at a more sedate pace. It's earlier than his usual time and a few people are still in the park.

And still the need to push himself faster grows as air fills his lungs and his feet eat up the miles under them. He doesn't know how long he's been running but the path is emptier now. Rounding a corner he sees the park clock in the distance. 12:27am. He's been running for almost 90 minutes. And he can't stop. Flying past the clock he pushes himself further and faster as if to outrun the hurt in his heart.

Another two circuits of the park go virtually unnoticed as his mind feels separate from his legs and feet. Until his feet give way and suddenly he's on the grass, tumbling down an embankment and coming to stop a few feet from the path in the trees, stopped against a thick tree trunk. At the abrupt cessation of the running he is confused for a moment at what has changed. Finally quiet after almost two hours, his muscles quiver in response to the prolonged exercise.

He hasn't escaped the pain inside him. It's come right along for the ride and now it spills out again. Lying on grass under the tree his heart threatens to explode as the tears rise in him. He rolls to the side, pulls his knees up and sobs against the tree. Unseen and unheard by the few remaining people in the park, he is still there as the last of them leave. A tight ball of grief under an overhanging tree, lit by a half moon in the night sky.


	5. Chapter 5

Day 46

Ressler is positive his brain is never going to remember how to sleep again. At 2:00am he makes a plan. And amid the ever present movie playing incessantly in his head of being fired from his job, it's no mean feat. It's a simple plan, yet it takes a while to formulate in a brain that's gone AWOL. He'll stock up on groceries, grab the dog, get gas and head up to the cabin. It's a good plan. It makes perfect sense to get out of town and get some air.

By 3:30am, despite his flat out, panic stricken run hours earlier he dons running gear and flees his apartment for another hour at the park. The pace is not as frantic. The thoughts are still there, shockingly raw and relentlessly pounding through his brain with every step, but they are no longer literally dropping him to his knees.

4:45am rolls around and he is back at his apartment, muscles calm for the time being. As he enters his bedroom to prepare for his day, he opens his closet and surveys the assortment of dark blue, black and grey suits. And as if hit by a truck right in the gut he suddenly realizes he doesn't have to pick out a suit, tie and shirt today.

Stumbling back he sits on the disheveled bed, eyes glued to his FBI work clothes. His belt even has two well-worn patches where his holster and badge sit – once sat. They will never occupy those two positions again. And just like that, the shakes begin anew as he leans forward, elbows on his knees, fingers running through his hair.

"Shit… I can't do this…" he laments as he leans forward, averting his eyes from the color coded row of suits.

He's still sitting there an hour later when there is a knock at his door that startles him from his thoughts. He doesn't want to get up and answer it. But if there is one thing he can't stand, it's not knowing who is knocking on his door or ringing his cell phone. If he had a cell phone. That's something else he's going to have to take care of.

Peering through the peephole, he suddenly steps back quickly, unsure if he really does want to open the door this time. But he respects the man too much to leave him standing out there and opens the door to Cooper.

He's well aware he looks like hell under red rimmed bloodshot eyes. He's gone running twice and hasn't changed out of his running gear. Hasn't showered or shaved or even combed his hair after hours of wringing his hands through it. He's got that hipster look down to a fine art right now. And knowing he has no time to do anything to make himself more presentable he exhales heavily and looks at his boss– former boss.

Cooper appraises him quickly, taking in the sight of his former employee before him with a visible start before he recovers quickly. "May I come in? I come bearing gifts," he tells Ressler with a pained smile, indicating the brown bag in his hand

Ressler nods and stands aside. "Of course, sir," and once Cooper is inside, he leads him to the kitchen to make coffee.

Cooper sits at the kitchen table, facing the fridge to find Liz's Wanted Poster staring back at him. He chooses not to say anything about that. "Don," he starts as Ressler turns at the use of his first name, "I came to see you to explain that I had nothing to do with this. I respect you a great deal. I would have worked with you and got you into rehab or whatever you needed. I need you to know that I had no part in-"

"I know that, sir. This was my doing," Ressler interrupts, placing a coffee in front of the man as Cooper opens the bag to reveal 2 large sausage, egg and cheese breakfast croissants. Sitting down with his own coffee, Ressler takes the offered delicacy in the parchment paper wrapping. He's not hungry, but he knows he needs to eat.

Cooper takes a sip of his coffee. "I didn't tell any of the agents what happened."

Ressler gives him a grateful half smile. "I know."

Cooper nods and continues. "But for my own peace of mind, or curiosity, call it what you will, if you feel up to it I'd like to know what happened that... that led us here."

Ressler holds his coffee cup in both hands, feeling the heat radiating from it. And afraid he will crush it under his tight grip, he releases the cup slowly, looks at his former boss and begins to tell him everything. It's hard as he opens up to the one he's hidden it from for so long. But Cooper deserves to know. And going through what happened after Anslo Garrick, being prescribed pain pills, then Audrey dying, then Meera dying and Cooper almost dying, he explains the sequence of events. And while he talks he absently eats the breakfast that Cooper has brought, barely even registering how it tastes.

Cooper stays silent, listening, nodding at times and shaking his head at others, focused wholly on what his former lead agent is telling him.

"I needed something to help me push through it and the pills were there. It was too easy," he says evenly, staring into his coffee cup. "By the time I knew I had a problem it was too late and I was only taking them to avoid withdrawal," he finishes, looking away and finding Hudson at his feet.

Cooper is looking at him over his own coffee. "But you're not using now, correct?"

"No, sir."

"What changed?"

"Sitka."

At Cooper's quizzical look, Ressler explains his meltdown in the Alaskan town. Breaking his thumb to get hold of any type of pain pills, and how bad it got in the woods as he was going through withdrawal.

Cooper looks across at him kindly, and Ressler can't stand that and looks away. "But you still quit," he tells Ressler. "That had to have been difficult."

Ressler nods, and his mind is still back in Sitka, sitting in an ambulance with Liz beside him. In a fake hospital as he leans on her. And in a small supply closet as he empties the pills down the sink for her.

"It was," he tells Cooper, but he's repeating what Liz told him that night. Hearing her say those two words to him that held so much meaning. And suddenly Liz is in front of him, looking at him with that concern, wanting to know if it's going to be a problem. And she cared. She cared SO damn much and told him so in two little words.

"I quit for my partner." And he's said it out loud and is unable to fathom why he's telling the man this. His voice suddenly breaks. "I quit for Liz," he tells Cooper, looking away as tears swim in his eyes.

Ressler has let his guard down. Cooper sees it for the first time and understands.

He looks at Ressler sympathetically, "And we, as in the Bureau, sent you out to hunt for someone that you obviously care a great deal about." He eyes Hudson sitting beside Ressler's feet. "That can't have been easy, Don."

Brushing the tears quickly off his cheeks as yet more spill over, he looks back at Cooper and shakes his head and can't answer for the moment. He stands quickly, faces the fridge and looks at her Wanted poster. "But I still would have found her, sir. I still would have done my job."

"Of that I have no doubt, Don."

Cooper sits in silence a moment as Ressler calms a little. After a couple of minutes, he continues.

"What will you do now?" he asks Ressler.

"I have no idea," he says, turning to face him again as he runs his hand across the back of his neck. "My immediate plan is to head for the cabin to clear my head," he tells him, eyes downward, looking but not really seeing.

Cooper drains his cup and stands to toss the empty sack and wrappings into the trash before he pats Resslers upper arm.

"Sounds like a good place to start. Clear your head and get some fresh air. And some much needed sleep, by the looks of it. If you need anything or just need to talk, you have my number."

"I don't have a new phone yet, but thank you sir," he tells Cooper, grateful to the man.

"Oh, thanks for the reminder." Cooper reaches into his inside pocket and hands Ressler his own phone. "That bastard Lloyd thinks I gave it back to IT to wipe, but I threw one of my old phones to them instead," he tells Ressler who is staring at him. He smiles at Ressler and pats his arm again. "I won't tell if you won't."

Ressler turns on his phone and thumbs through it. It wasn't the phone numbers he wanted. It was all those random, familiar little texts between himself and Liz. Those occasional smilies in her texts that always amused him at the time, but he now clung to. And he has a feeling Cooper knew that all along.

"I appreciate it, sir. Thank you."

"No problem. You know where to find me. But I'd best be off. They think I'm at the Lombardy having breakfast with Charlene." He lets himself out with a final nod and smile, closing the door behind him.

Ressler stands there with Hudson at his feet. The dog turns and walks toward the kitchen, letting out a single bark. Ressler doesn't even notice as he walks toward his bedroom with brain whirling, leaving Hudson sitting at an empty food bowl.

###

Ressler's well formulated plan of escape to his cabin isn't getting off the ground very fast. He does manage to shower and shave, which is some small accomplishment - especially since he couldn't bear to look in the mirror as he shaved. Towel wrapped around his waist he moves to his bedroom to change while trying his very best to ignore the suits which scream FBI agent. Instead, he opts for his jeans and a blue plaid shirt, hanging it loose over his white t-shirt before going to the living room and dropping heavily onto the couch.

Thirty minutes later he drags himself up and retrieves his go bag from near the front door in order to pack and refill it with clean non FBI agent clothing, picking up the sketch book from the floor as he does so. But when he opens the bag, the first thing that greets him is the empty wine bottle. And that's it. He's done in again, holding the bottle in his hands as he slowly lowers himself to the couch again. The image of Liz fills his mind, recalling the way her face had shone that night; fingers to her lips and eyes alight.

"Don't," he hisses to himself. "Don't go there." But he can't NOT go there, looking at the bottle. And as if to deliberately torture himself even more, he opens up the sketch book to their drawing.

"Where are you…?" It's not his job to hunt her anymore. He'll never get any intel on finding her. He's out of the loop. "Where the hell are you?"

But the worst part is he can no longer protect her. Can no longer help clear her name from the inside.

And he did it to himself. Let her and everyone else down because he couldn't handle things and turned to small white pills to numb the emotions. Was reduced to a drug addict because he wasn't strong enough.

"Shit."

He slams the sketch book close and rises quickly from the couch standing there, hands on hips and breathing deeply. Another emotion is slowly creeping in, settling in alongside the despair. Nudging it slowly but surely aside, frustration builds. And as the frustration melds and changes, anger builds, taking its rightful place in his mind. 'Fueled by an inner rage,' he recalls, and she had nailed it just weeks after knowing him. He paces around his living room, gritting his teeth while his nails wear grooves in his palms from clenching his fists.

###

By some small miracle, an hour later he has actually managed to pack a bag for the cabin. He doesn't have groceries, unless he counts the day old cold pizza residing in his empty fridge. He can figure that out later. But he intends on heading up there in the morning. Somehow. He doesn't only need fresh air. He needs to blow off steam. The wilderness at his cabin will let him go and scream his head off and go completely ape shit if he so desires and no one will hear; a prospect that's rather appealing right now.

He's pacing again and if he didn't know better, but unfortunately he does, he knows he's behaving like a strung out junkie right now. The thought sobers him at first. Then pisses him off even more. If he thought he could do it without plowing into a light pole on the highway he would head for the damn cabin right now.

He paces non-stop. Wrings his hands through his hair and drinks a few beers. And so the afternoon passes and as the sun goes down outside his window he's still in town. Has got nowhere - except maybe a little drunk. But not enough to numb the pain. Certainly not enough to make any difference but just enough to make him angrier, apparently. Anger at himself, at the pills, at his weakness. Anger at Reddington for not keeping better tabs on Liz with all his freakin' resources. And anger at Liz. He tries to shrug that off though. She had no part in him becoming a drug addict. Yet still, he's angry at her for running. For making him pursue her when she should still be sitting across from him in their office.

But above all, he's angry at himself for letting her go when they stood face to face near the loading dock. If he hadn't let her go, she could never have killed Connolly. Cooper would never have been sidelined. He would not have been made Acting Director. And now he's still in town and nowhere near equipped to make a three hour drive up to his cabin with the way his mind is working.

"Shit," he curses and storms to the bathroom and flings open the cabinet. The ritual is the same. The bottle is in his hand - that he now notices is shaking - as his eyes bore into the two pills.

"Don't you dare," he admonishes himself, before putting them back in the bottle and closing the cabinet.

He sees his reflection and almost recoils. He's avoided it till now and suddenly understands why everyone reacts when they see him. Haunted, red eyes stare back at him. He looks like the ass end of a week long bender in Shanghai, having slipped and fallen into the gutter on the way home. The shakes intensify. He has no clue what to do. And yet he does. There is only one thing left for him to do.

He opens the bathroom cabinet, takes the bottle quickly and tosses two pills into his mouth.

As if time stands still he drops the bottle now containing 28 pills into his pocket and closes the cabinet door - but avoids his reflection this time. He's taken them. After all his damn resolve, he's taken them. Walking to the bedroom he drops to his bed, hands to his face as he leans forward.

"Shit."

It didn't help. And it's not going to help as he feels the opposite to what he'd expected. All he's done is prove how weak he is. He rises, storms to the bathroom and thinks briefly of throwing them back up but they're already dissolving inside him.

'Dammit, dammit, dammit." Clutching his hair, he paces out to the living room.

It's like waiting for a bomb to go off. Waiting for the effect to seep through his system and cause that drawing, warming sensation. Except he's not feeling it, which is both good and bad. He can't stand still with a mind in overdrive seeking escape. His body is seemingly too highly strung for the pills to take effect. He knows the feeling because he's felt it before. He is just one more angry thought from detonating. One more wrong move from blowing a fuse. His jaw is hurting from gritting his teeth as he considers a shower to calm his muscles.

And he's heading back to the bathroom when there is knock at the door.

It's late for callers at 11:15pm and as he looks through the peephole the anger bubbles to the surface. He flings opens the door to find Dembe standing calmly in the hallway.

"What the hell do you want?" he asks through a jaw that's clenched so tight his ears hurt.

"I have come to get you and take you to Raymond." If he's noticed Ressler's anger, he's ignoring it.

"Why would I go anywhere with you?"

"Raymond insists that I bring you to him," Dembe tells him in that calm voice.

Ressler stands in the doorway, refusing to let Dembe in. What Reddington needs, Reddington always gets. But not this time. "What the hell for? I'm not his FBI errand boy anymore," he tells Dembe, raising his voice. "Or didn't he get that memo?"

Dembe stands there calmly, but then pushes past Ressler and enters. "Excuse me, but he wishes me to take you to him. He was very insistent."

Ressler faces the man as Dembe closes the door quietly behind him. "You tell your boss I'm done with him. Done with his little pet task force. Done with the Bureau!" he shouts.

"He said that you would be angry."

"No shit, Sherlock! I'm done with Raymond fucking Reddington ruining my life! I'm done!" Ressler turns away from him, hands on hips, gritting his teeth. He tries in vain to control himself. But it's not happening.

"Raymond is aware of what has transpired with you and the Bureau."

Ressler whirls back to him, tired of Reddington knowing every damn thing about everyone. "Well how fucking astute of him! Now get out!"

Dembe stands there a moment, viewing the hot headed former agent. "I respect you a great deal, but I cannot. My job is to take you to him."

"I suggest you leave." Ressler turns, hands clenched at his sides and strides toward his living room.

Dembe nods, then reaches into his jacket pocket and holds up an envelope. "He wanted me to give you this if you...resisted."

Ressler stops before turning back, seeing an envelope in Dembe's hand. He storms back and snatches the note off him. "What, no fucking head in a box to go with it?!"

Dembe offers a small smile at that.

And it's the smile that does him in. Ressler's fist flies, making contact with Dembe's jaw and mouth in a hard thud, shoving Dembe back into the door before either man realizes it's coming. Dembe's head moves back with a grunt, blood dripping from a split lip as Ressler's red hot eyes glare at him. But the black man does not raise a fist in retaliation. Simply regains his footing and looks calmly at Ressler while wiping the blood from his mouth with the back of his hand.

Grimacing, Ressler turns from Dembe without a word and barges through to his living room where he paces, wringing out his fist as it stings like crap. He stops and closes his eyes, shaking uncontrollably.

"Fuck it."

Dembe is still by the front door but Ressler ignores him now. He considers just tearing the note up. Reddington is still pulling the strings. Still calling the shots. Well not this time. He's a free man now, and has no need to run at every beck and call of Raymond Reddington.

But damn it, he also knows he is the only other person right now that Liz would go to. That Liz would be with. And it's that thought that causes him to rip open the envelope with his shaking hands and unfold the single sheet of paper with the handwritten note. The writing is the same. It's familiar, yet the words are new.

 _Donald, I know that everything you had left in your entire life has just been ripped away from you. I am sincerely sorry about what has happened. I know you feel like your entire identity is gone. I have been where you are. I understand what it does to a man. As you once grabbed hold of me and stopped me going over a precipice, I now do the same for you, my friend. Come to me and we'll talk. -Red._ _  
_(and bring that mangy mutt with you)__

He looks up, holding the note in his shaking hand. No. He won't go running to Reddington. Can't let the man keep controlling every damn situation. He rereads the note.  _'you feel like your entire identity is gone.'_  The words jump from the page. That's exactly what it feels like. No job to go to. No work to do. A closet full of FBI dress code suits and no office to go to. His job was his life.

 _'I understand what it does to a man.'_  Reddington couldn't possibly know how this feels. He drops his head. Yes, Redddington could. The realization comes that Red really is the only one who understands, having lost everything 20+ years ago. He understands because he knows Ressler.

He stands in his living room, reading the note over and over, seeing more in it each time. His breathing slows. The shakes subside and the anger dials down several notches. And the worst part is, he knows he's not controlling that. The two pain pills are kicking in as the adrenalin subsides. In an incredible irony, they're the only thing that is going to enable him to do that which he was refusing to do mere moments ago. He folds the note and puts it in his pocket, grabs his overnight bag that has taken all day to pack and with Hudson following, walks back to Dembe who is still waiting calmly by his front door.

And more because he can't stand the sight of his apartment any longer and has still doesn't know how he can ever manage to get to the cabin with a brain that can't function, he looks at Dembe.

And silently nods in resignation.


	6. Chapter 6

Day 47

They arrive at the airport 40 minutes later after a silent drive. In the back seat Ressler feels that familiar yet loathsome feeling of stillness in his muscles, coupled with a headache that's pressing against the back of his eyes. Yet he's not the slightest bit drowsy. He was wound up so tight the two Oxy have only brought him down to normal. Whatever normal is, because he doesn't know anymore. He's not proud of his performance with Dembe, knowing he's a complete prick when that temper takes control. Or loses control, more to the point. Concealing his emotions has always worked out better but it's not working too well of late. And not working at all this past 24 hours.

Climbing out of the car beside the jet parked on the tarmac, he looks up the jet. Sleek and white, it's a beautiful thing, yet all he can feel is the pounding in his head. Hudson is at his feet, practically leaning against him in this strange environment. Dembe walks back after parking the car and stands beside Ressler.

"So where are we going?" In the decision making process to go or not go to Reddington, it never once occurred to ask exactly WHERE he would be going. And once in the car, he didn't trust himself to speak.

Dembe smiles. Just a gentle crease of his mouth, perhaps recalling what happened last time he smiled at Ressler. "Canada." His lip is swollen, with a visible bloody cut. Ressler can't look at it and turns away before asking the question that's really on his mind.

"Is Liz with him?"

"I do not know...Donald. She was not there when I left."

The way Dembe says his name feels strange. He's only ever been called 'Agent Ressler' by the man. And trying not to think about the fact that Liz is likely not at the location he's going to, he's about to make his way up the steps when he looks back.

"Look, for what it's worth, I'm sorry. You're a good man and I'm sorry I blew a gasket and hit you back there. You were just doing your job for Reddington."

Dembe looks at him kindly, "I understand and accept your apology. But you are wrong."

Ressler tilts his head in question.

"You are more than just a job to Raymond," Dembe tells him before smiling and making his way on board.

He's not sure what to reply to that and simply nods slowly before he makes his way up the steps and onto the plane.

A familiar face greets him at the top of the stairs. "Hey G-Man, who's your little friend?" Young asks, looking at Hudson as he scurries on board.

He's no longer a government employee, a fact he's about to fling at the man. But as the words are on his lips he pulls them back and keeps his mouth shut. Once again, he can't trust himself to speak and continuing down to the back of the plane he drops heavily into a seat. The same seat, he now notices, that he sat in on the return from Sitka. He's in no mood to change seats, or to talk to Young who is now apparently Red's flight attendant. And that strikes him as funny for just a second, considering the circumstances under which they met Young. Some warped retribution from Reddington to the man, he's sure.

As they taxi and take off, Ressler leans back in the seat, his hand on Hudson as he shakes against him at the noise and pressure. He knows how the dog feels. He doesn't particularly enjoy this part either, but it's necessary if you want to get from A to B quickly. As the plane levels off at cruising altitude, Hudson relaxes and falls asleep in the recliner chair pressed up against him.

Young approaches and leans on the back of the seat in front of him, facing Ressler. "Look, for what it's worth, I'm sorry. You're a good man."

Ressler doesn't say anything. He's too intent on the words Young has just spoken because they're almost word for word what he's just told Dembe. Young shrugs and is about to leave, when Ressler answers him.

"No. I'm not. My own weakness did this." And he's not even sure why he's telling the guy. Perhaps because he has two damn pills inside him right now. Perhaps because Liz always told him he and Young were a lot alike. He doesn't normally see it, but maybe she's right. He looks out the window at the thought of Liz, then back up at Young who is apparently intent on getting something off his chest.

Young shakes his head and leans back on the seat to face him. "You're one of the strongest guys I know. I watched you before and after the plane crash. None of us would be here today if you hadn't have stood your ground and got us under those trees before the plane went up. So you made a bad choice and ended up here. But that doesn't make you weak. It makes you human."

Ressler looks at the man wondering how this sarcastic SOB that always manages to grate him the wrong way is suddenly sounding like the world's greatest counselor. Perhaps he should have a mug with that engraved on it. The thought occurs to him that Young might actually be an okay guy after all.

"Yeah, well, my bad choice just cost me everything."

Young looks at him with a half smile. "Not everything. You still have people who care about what happens to you."

Ressler looks away for a moment at that as Young continues. "People like Reddington. Hell, even me," he chuckles as he slaps Ressler's shoulder good naturedly. Ressler looks out the window again to escape the thoughtful look Young is now giving him. Apparently the pills haven't done much for that strung out hung-over vibe he's got going on.

"Why don't you try and get some sleep? We'll be there in a couple of hours."

Sleep. Such a simple little word. It even sounds relaxing. He nods at Young who gives him another half smile before heading to the front of the plane to sit near Dembe.

Yet Ressler cannot sleep, not even with the Oxy in his system, unlike his small furry traveling companion who is pressed up against him and lightly snoring as they fly through the night.

###

"That's Calgary up ahead," Young tells him as he passes by to the back of the plane, apparently taking his job of flight attendant seriously and pointing out the sights.

Ressler nods, seeing the large expanse of lights before them, and expecting to feel the plane start to descend. But the pilot keeps on going, only starting his descent some 20 minutes later with Calgary behind them. They land just after 2:30am local time, coming in to a small airstrip lit only by two rows of red lights in the dark.

"Where are we?" he asks Young as he stands and retrieves his overnight bag.

"Well, not in Calgary," he chuckles, as Ressler gives him a steady look. "A private airstrip on a property near Banff," he tells Ressler, then continues to the front of the plane to open the door.

Private airstrip. Well, of course. Departing the plane Ressler immediately notices the chill in the air compared to the climate he's just left. He can't see much. The moon is up there but it's fighting for control behind heavy clouds. They pile into a waiting car with Young driving, Dembe in the front and Ressler in the back with Hudson.

Ressler is trying not to think about meeting Reddington. As much as he chose to come here, he's not thrilled at the idea. It wasn't that it was a good idea; it just felt the least bad one at the time. He also can't shake the nagging feeling that Reddington might have orchestrated this entire thing. But that makes no sense, as Reddington also needs someone in the Bureau.

As Young drives through pine trees on either side of the private road, the moon breaks through the clouds and illuminates a small ice blue lake on their left. A fresh dusting of snow is on the ground as flurries dart in the beams of the car headlights. As the trees thin out the private road turns into a long driveway. Lights in the distance shine out into the darkness from a very large house that could easily double as a hotel. He can almost hear Samar's voice - it has Reddington written all over it. As the moon breaks through again, the sight of the backdrop of pine trees and the snow capped mountains behind the large mansion brings a small ironic smile to Ressler's features.

He couldn't get to his own cabin. But now he's at Reddington's version of a cabin in the woods. Chateau Reddington.

But all Ressler can think of now that he has arrived at his destination is Liz. Is she here or not? After Young drops them off at the double doors at the entrance, Dembe leads Ressler inside the large marble floored foyer. He stands under a large chandelier hanging from the ceiling while Dembe looks inside a doorway to the left before he turns back to Ressler and motions him in.

As the doors close behind him, he's left alone in a room with Reddington. Liz is not here. A brief sweep of the room reveals floor to ceiling book cases adorned with thousands of books. Red is at the window and turns at the sound of the doors closing. Ressler feels like a school boy being brought to the Principals office having been caught smoking - or taking drugs - behind the bathrooms. A feeling he doesn't like.

As Red turns to meet him, Ressler sees the momentary flicker in the man's eyes. He realizes he's not looking his stellar best right now and he's still not getting used to that reaction.

"Donald, I'm glad you came," he tells him, waving his hand to a couch as he sits across the coffee table from it.

"I didn't exactly have any other plans," he tells Red, slowly sitting on the couch and leaning forward. Hudson sits at his feet.

Red nods, quickly looks at the dog, tilts his head and looks at Ressler warmly as his voice softens. There is no mocking tone. No bravado. Only concern. "Yes, I am aware of what has transpired. Donald…I-" Red stops, grimaces slightly and pauses.

Ressler looks up quickly. Reddington is actually struggling to find the words.

Red continues, "I am truly sorry. Though you may feel you're in the loneliest place on the planet, I do understand how you feel, my friend."

"I'm glad you understand. Did you do this?" Ressler asks him steadily.

Reddington meets his eyes, and for that briefest of moments Ressler sees the flash of surprise. And before Reddington even speaks he knows the answer.

"No, I did not. Past experiences should have shown you that I have gone to great lengths to help you through as well as shield your addiction from the powers that be," he tells him. "And apart from that, I needed you right where you were. This is…unfortunate."

Ressler believes him. But 'unfortunate' hardly covers what he is feeling right now. The residue of the anger he was feeling toward the man evaporates. He no longer feels like a boy before the principal, but more like the prodigal son coming home to his father. He wonders what that says about him as he leans back in the couch, slouching somewhat as Red continues.

"But under the circumstances, I am very glad you came." Red straightens, looking at Ressler more steadily now.

Ressler looks toward the window, to the mountains that are hidden in the darkness. "Why here?"

"I have business in Calgary," Red tells him, his voice rising again to its former level. "But right now, my business is with you. And this was as close as I felt comfortable getting to that little den of thieves in DC."

Ressler is extremely glad the man didn't refer to it as 'your' little den of thieves. But then Reddington hasn't got where he is in life without learning to adapt quickly.

Red is studying him, an uncomfortable fact Ressler notices when he looks up again. "I asked you two days ago when was the last time you slept. You looked downright refreshed compared to how you do right now," he says, shaking his head as he looks at Ressler. "I would say you look like hell, but you'd actually have to improve tenfold to look that good." He rises from the couch and Ressler follows suit.

Red comes to stand beside him and places his hand on Ressler's shoulder. His tone softens again. "This has been difficult on you, that's very clear and I knew it would take this toll. It's why I sent for you."

Ressler nods silently. There isn't much to say to that.

"But we'll talk more tomorrow. For now, Dembe will show you to your room." He slaps Ressler's shoulder. "Get some damn sleep, Donald."

Ressler needs to ask him and yet still stands there. His eyes flicker to the door and back to Reddington. "Is-"

Red can read him like a book. "She's not here."

He looks down. He had needed her to be here. It's why he came. Well, perhaps not the entire reason. Reddington does have that draw, he hates to admit. Perhaps it's because nothing fazes the man, while everything is affecting him so badly right now to the point he gave in to the drugs. He nods and walks toward the door with Hudson in tow.

"Get some sleep, Donald."

###

Alone in his second floor room, Ressler walks around it. It's huge, naturally, and comfortable. Having showered and shaved despite it being the middle of the night, he climbs into the large bed. It's soft. Far softer than his own bed and he sinks into it. It's rather unnerving and somewhat like drowning in a large pillow. He turns to his side, looking out the window at the moon that is now shining brightly between clouds that are thinning.

Yet despite the comfortable bed, sleep does not come. Hudson is on the floor below him, happily snoring, but Ressler has no such respite. The Oxy is wearing off already. He can feel it in his nerves as they fire up again. Two pills were never going to last long but he reluctantly takes comfort in the fact they enabled him to calm down sufficiently to sit in the confines of a small jet at 30,000 feet. The alternative would have been a crippling, claustrophobic experience - one which could well have ended up with him in restraints.

The pills are taunting him. And this time they're not in the bathroom cabinet, but in his jeans pocket a few feet from him. He sits up, swinging his legs over the edge of the bed and grimaces. "Dammit, shut up," he tells his brain. He rises, standing in the dark room as he presses his fingers into his forehead to ease the pressure. The hot water of the shower helped some, but the headache is still there.

Sleep isn't coming. That much is abundantly clear and he needs some air. Quickly dressing, throwing his jacket on over jeans, t-shirt and plaid shirt he shoves his hand in his right pocket and brings out the bottle of pills. He tosses them in the drawer next to the bed and turns quickly for the door. And reaching for the door handle, he stops. He turns, strides back to the drawer where he retrieves the bottle, shoves them deep into his right jeans pocket then heads back to the door. His brain screams at him as the pills burn a hole in his pocket. In his soul. Now he really needs some air.

The hallway is deserted, and making his way along it with Hudson at his side he descends the large curved stairway to the lobby. Passing the darkened room to his right that he'd met Red in two hours ago, he crosses the white marble floor and slips out the front door. Crossing the paved driveway and front courtyard, Ressler foregoes the expansive gardens and heads for the closest pine trees a couple of hundred yards from the side of the house. The sun will be rising within the hour. But under the bright moon he can see well and has no need of a flashlight. The air is cold, but he likes it. It's a refreshing change from the heat of the city. He walks, following the line of the trees as they turn from the house.

He doesn't feel the need to run despite his system firing up again and the pills so close. Being in a different environment has quelled that need for now, apparently. He is content to walk, to feel the soft crunch of the pine needles beneath his boots and see the soft vapor of air as he breathes. His eyes take in the mountains that surround him in the moonlight. Nestled in a valley, the house sits below the peaks, each topped with the first coating of snow of the changing season.

As he walks the lake comes into view ahead. He's been to Canada a few times; mainly as a youth on skiing trips and still the glacial lakes never cease to amaze him with their crystal clear blue water. The thought comes unbidden. One day when he retires, he would like to retire in country such as this. He stops, realizing that he's already retired. He didn't retire though. His position was stripped from him unceremoniously with no warning. Yet he did have warning. Liz told him repeatedly to get help and he ignored her. 'I can do this on my own' he'd told her. And this is the result of him doing it on his own. He looks down and breathes deep, inhaling the scent of pine needles around him. He exhales with a shuddering breath as his fists clench.

"Dammit."

And now he runs. Jogging through the trees, his breath huffs around him in a white mist as Hudson runs at his side. The pace is not fast, but enough to keep up with the myriad of thoughts that are pushing each other aside to be heard. He wonders if he will ever find peace again. Not that he's had a particularly peaceful few years. Through the trees ahead small red lights appear lining the runway of the small airstrip. He slows to a halt, surprised to see he has come this far.

Time to head back. Turning, he retraces his steps, picks up the pace a little and jogs until the icy blue lake is in sight. The sun is rising as the first fingers of light appear in the eastern sky before him. Slowing to a walk he steps further into the trees now that it is a little lighter under them. Hudson sniffs the ground, detecting the recent passage of elk and rabbits. Walking around the silent trees, Ressler makes his way through patches of snow that crunch under his boots. It's a familiar sound. Yet it's a sound that conjures up unpleasant memories - of holding a former best friend at gun point; of a plane crash in a snowy landscape. Nothing good seems to happen in the snow anymore.

Nothing good seems to happen ANYWHERE now, he corrects himself. He stops. His brain is now fully awake after the Oxy has worn off. The memory of Reven Wright and Lloyd escorting him out of his workplace has now made it to the top of the pile. Seeing the elevator doors close on his final view of the black site, he shuts his eyes against the memory.

"Shit…" he's beside a tall pine tree and leans against the trunk, shoving his hands in his jeans pockets. And of course, as if to mock him even more his right hand closes around the small bottle of pills. He holds the bottle up to the pale light, twirling it slowly in his fingers. "Shit," he repeats, clasping the bottle in his hand. They don't belong here. A mind and body altering chemical compound that is in stark contrast to the pristine, tranquil landscape around him. He shoves them back in his pocket and out of sight. But that doesn't keep them out of mind.

Pushing off the tree he resumes his jogging, now running from the look in Cooper's eyes as he stood behind the two of them as the hammer fell. At the thought of Cooper he stops again and retrieves his phone from his inside jacket pocket. It's something he's done a dozen times. He thumbs back through the received calls to the one that came in on a late night in Dresden. He presses 'Call'. And again the recording sounds in his ear.  _'The number you have called is not in service.'_  He presses 'End Call' again, knowing she would have tossed the phone as soon as she'd spoken to him. But it hasn't stopped him trying to reach her again and again.

The house comes into view between the trees as the sun begins to transform the eastern sky into a soft shade of pink. Yet the house is still shrouded in darkness down in the valley. Crunching through another patch of snow, he hears a car approaching. He stops, standing unseen under the trees as the car comes down the curving driveway. It's the same car they were dropped off in earlier. Pulling up at the front door, Young exits the driver's side before reaching back to open the rear door behind his seat.

It's been almost six weeks since he saw her on the street. The image of her softly floating hair and blouse has been etched into his brain. He's recalled it a thousand times, day and night, clinging to that image of her. And as Young opens the back door, the image is different but it's the same grace he remembers. She's clad in jeans, jacket and a woolen hat that clamps down the top of her hair. But it's her, standing there as Young hands her overnight bag to her from the trunk. Tossing the strap over her shoulder with a swing of her hair, she crosses the paved driveway. Ressler stands completely still, almost afraid to breathe, taking it all in.

As Young drives the car around the back of the house Liz walks up the few steps to the front door. He's watching to see where she goes. Three minutes later, just when he's sure he's not going to know, a light comes on behind curtains a couple of rooms down from his on the second floor.

He has his answer to the question he's asked himself for weeks. All those sleepless nights he lay awake begging to know where she was fall behind him. Now he knows where she is.

Liz is right there in that room.

He bolts for the house, sprinting as fast as he can, completely taking Hudson by surprise in the process. Hurtling through the trees he discovers he's not quite as close to the house as he thinks. His long legs eat up the distance between himself and Liz. All those miles he ran in the park each night went nowhere. Just round and round a path as he ran, intent on clearing the demons from his mind. Now he runs with a single minded purpose. The light is still on in the room as he breaks free of the trees and charges across the driveway. Running to the front door he pushes it open, not pausing to bother closing it. Hudson dashes in through the gap and follows Ressler through the lobby.

###

In the room to the left of the entryway, Red is having his first cup of coffee of the day, reading the early paper that Liz handed him on her way through. He didn't say a word to her about their house guest.

As the front door slams open he looks up, about to rise to his feet when he sees who has made the commotion. Donald isn't sleeping after all, he realizes. He nods, smiles a little to himself and resumes his reading of the paper.

Dembe is nearby. "Did Young tell Elizabeth what has happened to him?" he asks Red as Ressler flies past their door.

"I told him not to mention a word to her about Donald. This is something the two of them need to work out themselves," he tells Dembe before returning to his paper as the sound of Ressler's running feet fade away as he reaches the second floor landing.


	7. Chapter 7

Taking the stairs three at a time Ressler turns left at the second landing and runs down the hallway. His goal is just ahead of him. After weeks, she is just yards away. Last door on the left. All those false leads. All those pursuits that got nowhere, and now he's literally been brought right to her. Sprinting down the carpeted hallway he arrives at her door and doesn't even consider if it's unlocked as he grasps the brass handle and barges inside the room. He comes to a complete stop at the sight of her, turned away from him and lit softly in the glow of a lamp.

Unseen by both of them, a little furry shadow sneaks in before the door closes and settles behind a recliner.

"What the hell?" she blurts out, turning to face whoever has come barging in, holding her hand to her half unbuttoned blouse to cover herself.

He stands still, taking in the sight of her. It's the face he remembers, yet different. More tired. She's a little thinner. Her hair is longer. And while she doesn't look as ragged as he knows he does, he can see she's not looking her radiant best.

Her eyes widen as she realizes who has come crashing into her room. "Oh, my God! How did you find me?!" Startled, she turns toward the window suddenly afraid there is an armada of law enforcement with flashing red and blue lights parked outside. She peeks through the curtain worriedly as he takes a step forward.

"There is no one out there," he tells her, fully aware of what her first though is. "It's just me."

She turns at the sound of his voice. Strained and taut. He's different and it's not just the fact he's dressed in casual clothes and not in regulation FBI gear. Hand falling from her blouse, the lacy bra underneath is visible as she steps toward him looking more closely at him in the soft light. "My God, what's happened to you? You look terrible, Ress!"

Yes he does, and he's really wishing everyone would shut the hell up about it. He's also wishing she'd cover up her bra. "Yeah, so I've heard. Are you okay?" he asks, stepping forward to her.

She nods, looks away and finds the small dresser stool and sits down on it. "Yeah. But now you've found me," she says quietly. "And you need to take me in."

He stares at her. It hasn't occurred to him that she doesn't know. She has no idea that he's no longer Special Agent Ressler. That he was stripped of his title and job, handed over his badge and gun and was escorted out. He shakes that memory away with difficulty. Reddington knew, yet he hasn't told her.

"I'm not here to take you in, Liz." He takes a couple more steps toward her then stops. He's hanging back, almost afraid that if he startles her she'll run. And she's right here in front of him at last, and yet all his mind can see now is Reven Wright and Lloyd in his office, and a subdued Cooper behind them.

"Then what are you-?"

"That isn't my job anymore!" he tells her as his voice rises; the memory too vivid in his mind of being escorted out of the Post Office.

"What?" She looks up at him. "Then whose job is it?"

"Coopers." He swallows hard, suddenly wishing he didn't have to say the words out loud. "Cooper's back in charge. I was-" He turns away. "That position was taken away from me."

"Oh, my. Oh, Ress, I'm sorry."

He can't look into her eyes and tell her and turns away, hands on hips. "I'm not a Federal Agent anymore, Liz!" His words are strangled, coming out of a throat that is suddenly tightening along with his chest.

She stares at him open mouthed as she rises to her feet. "You're not a… What?!"

"I got fired!" he throws at her. But he's not angry with her. It's directed at himself. At his inability to handle things and turn to drugs like some street doper - and that he took them again 7 hours ago.

She stares at him as he paces, his hand rubbing the back of his neck. "I got kicked out of the Bureau," he says, looking up at her again. And the look in her eyes is unbearable.

"Shit!" he curses.

She stumbles back and sits on the bed. "Oh, my God." A thought occurs to her. "Because of me?!"

'No!" he shoots to her, then shakes his head. "Maybe. I don't know, Liz. I don't know anymore." The thought has occurred to him, but he can't go there. Can't blame her.

She faces him from the bed as she perches on the edge of it. "Then what the hell happened?"

"They found out I'm an addict! They knew about the drugs!" He tells her, fully aware the residue of said drugs has almost left his system. His jangling nerves are telling him that loud and clear. He turns, unable to face the look in her eyes and stalks away.

Her mind is racing. "Tom Connolly had that information. But I shot him!"

"You think I don't know that?!" He turns back to her quickly, his voice raised. "I'm head of the task force hunting you because of it, remember?!" He stops. "WAS head of that task force." Grimacing, he turns away from her. "Dammit!"

She steps toward him. "But I shot Tom Connolly to stop that information getting out! I was protecting YOU!"

"Protecting me? Really Liz? That's the same logic Tom Keen used and look how well that turned out!" he throws at her, eyes hardening in anger as he looks at her.

"When Connolly said he knew about your habit I just-" she puts her arm out to him as he passes, but he shrugs it off angrily. "Ress, I couldn't let him tell anyone!"

He stops at one end of his pacing run and faces her. "That's great, Liz. Look where we are now! I told you not to run. I begged you not to!"

She stands her ground with him. "I didn't have a choice!"

"You DID have a choice! I GAVE you that choice!"

"The Cabal were after me!"

"Yeah? Well, news flash, Liz. They still are! And so are the Bureau. Only I'm not their damn poster boy in charge of the hunt anymore!"

She stops, looks down then back up at him as his pacing resumes. "I never wanted this to happen, Ress."

He glares at her. "I know that! But I told you to come to me. That we'd work it out-"

"I couldn't! The CIA and Cabal were crawling all over the Post Office!" she shouts, following him on one of his turns across the room.

He stops, breathing hard and stares at her. "Dammit, Liz. This is ME! I could have met you ANYWHERE!"

She doesn't answer, just stares at her partner who won't stand still in front of her, pacing back and forth like a caged lion.

"Don't you get it?! I've spent the last six weeks trying to help you from the inside! And now I can't do that, Liz! I'm not in a position to do it anymore!" he yells at her, storming away from her to resume his pacing.

Her voice softens. It still hasn't sunk in. "They really fired you...?"

"Yes, Liz! You want me to spell it out?! I'm out of a job. Unemployed. Worthless!"

"You are not worthless! Don't you dare say that!" she tells him harshly.

"I have nothing left! Nothing, Liz! All I have is the same thing you do!" He points toward the entrance of the house. "A puppet master who called and I came running!"

At the mention of Reddington, her eyes narrow in question. "He brought you here? Why?"

"Apparently I had nothing fucking better to do!" He shouts, startling her with the hurt and brutality behind it. He stares at her before whirling away from her. He grits his teeth, breathing hard as he stands by the window. He can't see anything through the closed curtains, but it's the furthest he can get from her in the room.

"Ress, I'm sorry, but this hasn't been easy on me either, you know."

"I know that!"

She's at his side and as her hand reaches for him he steps back.

"Don't touch me!" He moves away.

"Ress." Her hand finds his arm again.

"Don't!" He needs to go. He's too vulnerable. Too raw.

"I need to get out of here," he tells her, but this time she's not having it and grabs his arm, stopping his flight.

"Don't go. Not like this," she begs him, holding his arm, feeling the trembling of his muscles under her touch. He's wound up tighter than a coiled spring.

"Dammit, Liz. Don't." He's two for two in the losing control of his temper department tonight. He needs to be away from her.

But she has other ideas. Her arms encircle him as she presses into his chest. Presses into his entire body. "I'm sorry I put you in this position."

He can't have her this close. Not right now, and grips her arms and pushes her off him, holding her at arms length.

"I didn't want to run, Ress," she tells him, reaching her hand out to touch his chest. He pulls it away as if burned by hot coals.

"And I didn't want to hunt you, Liz! I couldn't do it! Not with the way I FEEL about you!" he's in her face, his eyes darting and it's out before he can take it back.

She stares at him. And suddenly sees what is behind his eyes.

"Ress, I- Oh, God."

In one fluid motion he moves into her, raising his hands to her face and cupping her cheeks. His mouth finds her lips, pressing hard on them as his fingers now run through her hair, holding her to him. She responds and opens to him as her hands reach around him, pulling herself into him while forcing him to keep his lips on hers. His tongue is against hers, pressing into her, exploring her mouth.

She feels him momentarily back off, but her hand on the back of his neck stops him. He kisses her harder as she unbuttons the rest of her blouse revealing her pink lace bra underneath. With a deft hand he undoes the clasp behind her and her bra falls between them. He meets her eyes. There is no stopping now as he plants his mouth on hers and cups a breast in his hand. Her hands grasp the back of his jeans, pulling him closer as she feels his unmistakable desire.

His arms are suddenly around her and in an instant he scoops her up. She's lighter and smaller than he's always imagined. And yes, he has imagined this before he realizes. He needs her. Wants her. Her hands are around his neck as he holds her, kissing her hard again before he moves to the bed and lays her down. And looking down at her with her arms reaching for him, he quickly undresses and lays down beside her in t-shirt and boxer shorts.

"Ress," she whispers.

"Shut up, Liz," he whispers back, meeting her eyes before he shuts her mouth with his.

His hand finds her breasts again, lingering over them but she pushes his hand lower to her belt. He unbuckles it and unzipping her jeans, his fingers bury themselves in the moist warmth of her panties. Gasping, she moves under him. But it's not enough. His hand slips under the thin fabric as she shucks out of her jeans. Against her moist skin his hand is on her, rubbing her before his fingers slip inside as she opens her legs. She's is already wet.

He is rock hard against her. Moving her hand to his shorts, his length presses against her under the fabric before she moves his shorts down, releasing him from their constraint. He is hard against her hand as she holds him, grasping him in her fingers. Flinging his t-shirt off, he is finally naked as he drops between her legs. His hard tip plays at her entrance. She nods quickly, her hands now holding his back. She is wet and ready as he pushes inside, dropping his head to hers as he does so.

She gasps as he moves into her, kissing him hard as leans on his elbows either side of her. Her legs rise, encircling his back, pulling him closer into her. Pulling him further inside as he thrusts. It's been too long for him. It's quick. Hard and fast with his desperate need. Her need is as great as his. They rock together, holding tight, needing and wanting each other. As he feels it rise in him he grunts into her cheek, she gasps in his ear as he rubs against her and sends her over the top with him. As one they cling to each other, shuddering through their climax together.

And finished, he lays on her panting hard, sweating as her hands hold him tight to her. He's still inside her. He opens his eyes to meet hers. As she lowers her legs from around him he closes his eyes again, withdraws gently and rolls to his back beside her on top of the covers.

He doesn't say a word as she rolls to her side and kisses his cheek. His brain has momentarily shut down. As his arm finds her and holds her close against him, she lays close at his side, her breasts against him. He closes his eyes and feels the touch of her lips on his cheek before she quickly whispers to him to stay right there as she gets up and retrieves a blanket. Laying it over him as he lays naked on the bed covers, she then slips under it to resume her place beside him. As his arm finds her again she fits comfortably into his side.

His body is calm. There are no thoughts of hunting down his partner, of being fired, of pain pills and endless running from his emotions. No more anguish and pounding of sheets to try and sleep.

And for the first time in weeks he sleeps. Soundly and peacefully.


	8. Chapter 8

As Ressler opens his eyes in the darkened room, he's not sure where he is. But three seconds later it comes rushing back. He knows where he is. And who he was with. His heart leaps in his chest. Yet he is alone in the bed and raising his head he peers around the room. She's not here. Dropping his head back down, he stares at the empty side of the bed. He shouldn't have done it. Not like that and not in the state of mind he was in at the time. He should have listened to his instincts and left, knowing he was too out of control.

"Shit…" his hands run through his hair as he lies back. Liz is right. He's a hot headed bastard who spends half his life covering up the fact that he IS fueled by an inner rage; a fact he's not proud of.

Their complicated relationship has just gone from zero to a hundred.

There is no denying he needed it - needed her. And apparently she did too, judging by her reaction. But that didn't give him the right to take it. He exhales and rolls to the side, facing the empty side of the bed again. Liz's side. His eyes catch sight of the bedside clock and he is stunned to see it's 6:45pm.

He's been asleep for 12 hours.

He wonders where she is. Which has been a common theme in his brain for the past six weeks, but now it has taken on an entirely new meaning. The difference is this time he can go out of the room and likely find her within the confines of this house. Something he needs to do. But he'd better put on some clothes before he does that.

Sitting up, he rises from the bed and notices Hudson by the bed looking up at him with sharp eyes. "Forgot we had an audience," he says, as the dog's tail thumps at the mere sound of his voice.

Looking around for his clothes, he finds them folded on a chair along with his overnight bag on the floor beside it. He assumes Liz went to his former room and got it. He stares at the neat pile of clothes. It's so domestic. Such a simple gesture, yet it's a symbol of a drastic change. Shaking his head, he makes his way to the bathroom, turns on the water and steps into the shower.

He's standing under the water when there is a knock on the bathroom door. He knows who it is. And given the fact it is HER bathroom and the obvious change in their relationship he almost can't believe that she's knocking.

"Ress, can I come in?"

He practically raped her 12 hours ago, so of course she can. Yet this isn't quite what he had in mind when he needed to find her and talk to her. But what the heck. She's just seen him at his most raw and intimate.

"Yes!" he calls out from under the hot water. He reaches for the shampoo as the door opens. It's some fancy peach scented crap, but he'll go with it.

"Hey," she says and through the opaque shower curtain he sees her sit down on the closed toilet lid beside the shower.

"Hey," he replies, wondering why he doesn't feel exposed with his partner sitting beside him while he showers. But several things strike him simultaneously. She's not his partner anymore. Neither of them are FBI agents any longer. That constraint has been lifted.

And of course, they just had sex.

"You okay?" she asks, beating him to it.

"Yeah… You?" he asks, scrubbing his scalp as the peach scent wafts around him.

He hears her chuckle and the sound takes him by surprise. "Yeah, I am. They're serving dinner soon, so I came to see if you were awake."

"That I am," he tells her still unable to believe he's just got more sleep in one day than he has for the last several weeks.

"I checked on you a few times today. You were out like a light," she adds.

He doesn't need to tell her he hadn't been sleeping well. One look at him as he'd torn through her door had told her that.

"So, what did we just do?" she asks.

Washing off the shampoo, he doesn't answer for a moment. He's asking himself that too, so how the hell does he answer that. And once he can open his eyes without fear of the shampoo infiltrating them he peers around the shower curtain as water sprays around him and gives her a rueful smile.

"Well, if I have to explain that, perhaps I didn't do it right." Of course, he's gone with the humor approach. Always his first line of defense.

But she knows him and understands that. "You know what I mean," she smiles.

"Yes, I do," he tells her, reaching back and turning off the water. As he pulls the curtain back, she reaches behind her and hands him a towel.

Stepping out of the shower, he stands before her naked and dripping wet as he dries his face. "And I'm sorry," he tells her as he begins to dry his hair, rubbing the towel on his scalp.

"Don't be. I'm not," she tells him, her eyes lingering on his lean body before her and the scars that adorn it. Her finger reaches out and traces the line of his appendix scar. "It's healed well," she says quietly, then meets his eyes that shine out below a mop of uncombed hair.

What can he say? His body is fast becoming a road map of scars.

Standing up to face him, she places her hand on his wet chest as she raises her eyes to him. "Don't be sorry."

"I'm not sorry we slept together," he tells her, then leans down and kisses the tip of her nose, eliciting that beautiful smile in her. "I'm sorry that I lost my temper and took it from you in anger." He looks away, and exhales.

She leans into him, getting her clothes wet against him as she puts her arms around him. "You didn't take it. I gave it to you."

He nods, kissing the top of her head. She's leaning against him, which is not a good idea right now. He lifts her chin. "Okay. But if you want to go down to dinner, I suggest you stop doing that."

She laughs and pulls back, already feeling what he's referring to. "Right," she says, patting his chest. "I'll let you get dressed."

###

"Can I ask you something?" she says, sitting on the dresser stool combing her hair as he pulls his jeans on behind her.

"I don't think we exactly have any secrets now, Liz. Ask."

She looks up at his reflection as he's pulling his t-shirt on. Her mind is immediately back in a fake hospital where it had taken him forever to find the right armholes to get his shirt on. She smiles at that memory. "Would you have taken me in?"

He doesn't have to lie anymore. Doesn't have to avoid it like he did from Samar. "I have asked myself that every day and it's kept me from sleeping for weeks," he tells her. "But I let you go that first day. So what do you think?"

She swivels on the small round stool. "I think I always knew that, but knowing how good you are at your job, I have to admit, I was a little concerned."

He WAS good at his job. Something that is a moot point now. "Well, we don't have to worry about that anymore, do we?" he says quietly, exhales and meets her eyes as he stands up from putting his boots on.

She stands up to him and faces him, laying her hand on his arm. "I'm sorry. I wish…" she looks away.

"What?"

"I wish you hadn't been alone when it all came crashing down around you, Ress."

So does he.

###

As they come down the stairs they hear voices off to their right. The dining room, Ressler assumes. Red's distinctive laugh comes to them. Ressler turns to Liz and raises his eyebrows at her at the familiar sound. As they enter the room, Red, Dembe and Young are at the table. A spread of various dishes adorns the center of the table with plates at one end. It might be 5 star fare, but it's still self-serve.

"Donald!" Red looks up and greets him from the head of the table with eyes have that hint of a smirk behind them. "Glad to see you got some sleep." Ressler is pretty sure the puppet master knows what else he got.

He sits beside Liz and under the table her hand finds his thigh. He squeezes her hand for a second, then reaches for some of the meat and potatoes in dishes in the centre of the table, half filling his plate. He actually feels hungry for a change. But then he did work up an appetite.

Dinner conversation is safe. Small talk about the weather, the beauty of the location, and 'perhaps the two of you might like to do some sightseeing tomorrow'. Ressler wonders at Red. They're fugitives from the law yet he still treats everything as his own personal world vacation.

Dembe and Young finish eating their meal then excuse themselves, leaving the three of them together. As the two men leave, Red wastes no time.

"Donald," he smiles, laying down his knife and fork and reaching for his wine as he settles back in his chair. 'Feel up to talking?"

Ressler looks sideways at Liz, leaning into her. "Is this the part where he tells me he will break my kneecaps if I hurt you?" he asks her quietly.

She laughs before getting up from the table to leave the two men alone to talk. As she rises from her chair, her hand lingers on the back of Ressler's neck as she leaves the table.

If Red didn't know before he sure as hell does now.

Red is smiling at Liz as she departs, then looks back at Ressler with a tilt of his head and that small knowing smirk. Ressler doesn't say a word.

"I'll get straight to the point," he tells Ressler.

"You usually do."

"You're no longer in the FBI."

Ressler looks at him silently before his eyes drop and look away. He hasn't yet got used to hearing it said out loud and each time it's as if he's hearing it for the first time.

Red's voice softens. "Donald, I am truly sorry."

Ressler nods, meets his eyes again, effectively giving him permission to continue.

Red is not one for small talk when it comes to business. "I have a proposal. One I want to run by you and then I want you to take some time to think about it before you give me your answer."

Ressler is silent, letting the man speak.

"I want you to come work for me."

Ressler looks away. He half expected that and yet it's still a surprise. The notion is so foreign.

He looks at Red. "You told me once I was a tourist. I can't do what you do, Reddington."

"Oh good Lord, no one can do what I do, Donald," he laughs, before draining his wine glass. "Nor would I want you to. I need you to still be a cop. It's what you do. It's who you are. The difference is you will just have your paycheck signed by a different party."

"That's not the only difference," he tells Red before he stands up, unable to sit still while he hears this. He walks to the window, shoves his hands in his jeans pockets and immediately feels the bottle of pills. He takes his hands out quickly and looks out at the snow capped mountains in the distance, averting his eyes from Red's.

Red is aware of that. "Hear me out. I'm in a quandary. I still have business I need to conduct with the Bureau but I cannot do it myself. Current circumstances being what they are, I cannot set foot in the Post Office. Obviously, neither can Lizzie. But YOU can."

Ressler turns from the view outside and stares at him. "I was escorted off the premises. I swear if Wright hadn't have been there, that bastard Lloyd would have used my own cuffs on me."

"You were escorted from the premises as an FBI agent, Donald. You would not be returning in that capacity. I'll clear it with Harold and Reven Wright. I'll make it clear you are now the liaison between myself and the Bureau and that our business arrangement can continue," Red tells him, pouring more wine in his glass before tipping the bottle toward Ressler.

He shakes his head. The last thing he needs is alcohol on his brain right now.

"You'll be my man on the inside. Lord knows we've played that enough times. Now you'll do it for real. And you'll be well compensated for it."

Ressler turns back to him. "I don't care about the money," he tells Red. It's always been about the work.

Red continues, "I know that. You know the Bureau. You know me." He looks evenly at Ressler at the window. "Donald, there is no one else I trust with this but you, my friend."

Despite the source, Ressler appreciates the man's honesty and vote of confidence. "You've got it all figured out, don't you?"

"I always have a plan. Surely you know that by now," he smiles.

Ressler has to admit he's never seen the man without a contingency plan. Not even when he was shot in the street. And not in this situation. And while satisfied that Reddington did not leak the information that got him drummed out of the Bureau, he can see that even in this change of circumstances Red is going to spin it to his advantage.

"If I do this, where will I be based?" He can't believe he's actually asking logistics questions when he hasn't even had time to digest this proposal. But as he thinks about it, it's also to his own benefit too. It's a strange prospect. But he may need this as much as Red needs him to do it.

Red smiles, seeing Ressler's train of thought kicking in. "Same place you always have been. Washington DC. Your apartment. I may have need of you on occasion and will send Dembe to collect you. Look at it this way. You'll be well traveled."

Ressler looks back out the window. It's so peaceful out there, in stark contrast to the thoughts whirling in his brain. "When do you need an answer?" And again, there it is. He's taking this seriously.

"Take your time. Talk it over with Lizzie."

He turns quickly, hands on hips at the mention of her name.

"Understand that your task of clearing her name still exists. That is still our priority. You're just on the other side of the fence now. You'll still work closely with Harold, and Agents Mojtabai and Navabi in that regard. I know the Bureau's task is to hunt her down. I am also aware none of you have stopped trying to clear her name. And she still needs that."

Ressler nods and looks closely at the man. "I won't see her though, will I? You'll keep her hidden... keep her safe." And he knows Reddington understands what he means and in what capacity he needs to see Liz now.

Red stands and strolls to the window and looks out at the view as the tips of the snow capped mountains turn orange in the setting sun. He puts his hand on Ressler's shoulder.

"If there is one thing you must have learned about me by now is that I don't pay any attention to limitations. I always find a way. And I will ensure that whenever it is safe to do so, you and Lizzie will have quality time together."

###

Ressler walks slowly back to Liz's room and reaching the door, he doesn't knock and just lets himself in before it even occurs to him. But then he didn't exactly knock the first time either. She notices too and smiles. Technically, it has become 'their' room he realizes.

"What did he say? Though I have a pretty good idea."

"If it involves him employing me to liaise with the Bureau on his blacklisters, then you'd be right," he tells her as he slumps in the chair still hearing Red's words in his head.

"Damn, Liz," he leans forward in the chair, looking at the carpeted floor. "I can't believe I did this to myself."

"It is what it is, Ress," she tells him, coming to sit on the chair next to his.

"I know. I'm just not sure I can report to him as my boss."

"Ress, we've basically been reporting to him as our boss for two years. You know that."

He shrugs. She's right. "Do you miss it? The Bureau?"

She looks at him and nods her head slightly. "I do. You will too," she tells him. "We both worked hard to get where we were in the Bureau. But now…No more special agent... we're just Liz Keen and Don Ressler," she says quietly, her head lowering before she looks back at him with shining eyes.

He stands up and holds out his hand to her. "Come on. Let's get some air," he tells her, then looks down at Hudson. "Yeah, you too."

Grabbing their jackets they walk out of the room and make their way out the front doors. It's getting dark, but the lights from the house illuminate the paved driveway and gardens. They walk, not really paying much attention to where they are walking. Just enjoying each others company as they talk. Hudson walks beside them. Liz looks down at the dog.

"Thank you," she tells Ressler, "for taking care of him."

Ressler smiles, "Couldn't very well leave the kid out in the cold, could I?" He looks down at the animal. "Truth is…I've needed him as much as he's needed me."

They find a park bench among the shrubbery and garden beds and sit together. The air is getting colder and they will need to head back inside soon. But for now, Ressler breathes in the night air.

"I could get used to this," he tells her, looking toward the pine trees.

"It's beautiful, I know," she replies, then looks at him with shining eyes. "If I have to be a fugitive I'm glad Reddington is the one on my side."

His arm finds her shoulder as he draws her in close. "We're joined at the hip with the man, of that there is no doubt."

"You're going to tell him 'yes' aren't you?" she asks as he holds her against him.

He doesn't answer. But she can see it in his eyes as he turns to her before he kisses her forehead.

They sit in silence for a few minutes before he finally answers her.

"I hunted the man for years. I both lost and gained Audrey back because of him. He has turned our lives upside down. I won't say 'ruined' because even though I've thought that in the past, it's not entirely true. He has protected you when I couldn't. He is an enigma. He is a murderer. He is everything the Bureau is not."

He pauses, looking up at the stars above them, drawing her closer to him as a soft breeze brings a chill of air off the mountains. "And yet, he is my one chance now at regaining back some of what I have lost. And while I know what he is, who he is, and what he's capable of, I feel drawn to him and to do this. And I'm not sure what that says about me…" he trails off, then looks down at her.

She smiles, and places her hand on his chest. "The fact that all of that bothers you tells you everything you need to know about yourself. He needs you to be the opposite of him. It's why he has offered you this. You ground him, Ress. You remind him of who he once was. You show him how he should be. And he needs that near him," she tells him.

He looks down at her, realizing how much she sees and gives her his half smile as she continues.

"You and Red are two sides of the same coin. Each side can never be the same; will always be opposite yet you are inseparable."

He doesn't know how to feel about that. But she's right.

The breeze blows over them again and she shivers against him. "Let's get back," he tells her as they rise from the bench and make their way back to the house, Hudson trotting close behind them.

###

Red watches them walking back to the house from the window. He can never change what has happened with Lizzie and now Donald. If he could, he would have. But he can keep Lizzie safe. He can keep Donald close.

Dembe is watching Red, aware of who he is looking at outside.

"Do you think Agent Ressler-"

"He's not an agent anymore, Dembe," Red reminds him softly.

"Do you think Donald will do it?"

"He's already decided. He's just not sure how to say it out loud."


	9. Chapter 9

As they come back inside, Liz shivers, glad to be back in the warmth. His arm is around her waist as they walk toward the room on the left to find Red sitting in the recliner. Dembe is nearby putting wood on the fire.

Sitting on the couch together they both look toward Red who is now folding his newspaper and regarding them with a smile.

"I trust you had a pleasant stroll? Though there is a chill in the air tonight."

"We did," Liz tells him, but doesn't say more knowing that Red is really waiting for Ressler's answer.

Ressler faces Reddington, leaning forward on the couch as Liz lounges back beside him. "Okay. So I've considered your offer. And because I know you. And you know me, and you're right, I'm the only one who can do this for you. A fact you'd better remember next time I ask you for something," he stops and smiles at Liz as she snickers at that before he continues, not sure he can really believe what he's about to say. "I have decided to accept your job offer."

Red smiles broadly. It's genuine. There is no false warmth in it Ressler notes. "Excellent, Donald!"

Ressler wonders why the prospect of going to work for the man he hunted for five years suddenly feels so right. "So, when do I start?"

"There is no hurry. I'm here for a couple more days and it will give me time to talk to Harold and that bird-like creature Reven Wright. No one knows we are here and my business in Calgary can wait."

Ressler smiles and shakes his head. "You never had any business in Calgary did you... boss?" He adds the word at the end to elicit a response. And he gets it.

Red laughs out loud, shaking his head in delight at Ressler. Dembe turns from the fire and grins as Liz loses it beside him, folding into him with laughter.

Red is still laughing out loud. "Oh, this is going to be a gas."

###

Leaving Red and Dembe they head back up to their room.

"So, how do you feel?" she asks him as he walks quietly beside her along the hallway on the second floor.

"Like I just got in bed with the Devil and find it strangely appealing."

"Oh, I don't think there's room in our bed for three," she tells him, glancing sideways at him.

He raises his eyebrows at her. "Our bed?" he asks, teasing her. Of course it's their bed.

They enter the room and neither of them turn the lights on. It's very dark inside and they want that right now. Silently she turns to him and slips his jacket off. He removes her jacket, tossing it to the chair.

"You know, I'm not always an angry hot head," he tells her, kissing her forehead.

"Show me," she whispers.

Taking her hand, he leads her to the bed together as they slowly undress each other. There is no frantic need. No distraught pent up anger desperately needing release. Only quiet calm.

He cups her breasts in his hand, leans down to lick them before they drop into the bed, under the covers this time. His mouth licks and sucks her breasts before moving down her belly and hovering over her mound. And parting her legs, his tongue finds her most sensitive spot. Quivering as he licks her, she holds his head to her. And just when she can't stand it anymore, he moves up her again, teasing her with his tongue as he makes his way along her belly and breasts before reaching her lips.

Her hand moves down and cups his length. She guides him into her and slowly he enters her as her hands now find his back. And moving slowly to prolong it, his cheek finds hers in the dark as her legs rise and hold him to her. His arms slide under her and in one smooth movement he rolls, holding her to him and staying inside her. Sitting above him, she rides him slowly, her breasts leaning down to him as he caresses them, thrusting upward as she leans down to kiss him.

Their speed quickens and in unison, they thrust and rock together as she slides up and down on him. His finger expertly touches her sensitive button as he feels himself near, bringing her with him at the same time. And both spent, she falls forward on him as he hugs her close to him. And laying on him as their heart rates slow she kisses him slowly as he cups her face in his large hands.

"Told you," he smiles.

"You can do that to me forever," she whispers.

They part, and as she lays beside him he rolls her gently so her back is toward him. And arm around her waist, his face buried in her neck, he closes his eyes.

Close behind her his breathing is even, his body relaxed against her. And lying in his arms she whispers, "I love you..."

He doesn't move behind her. But his eyes open as he hears her before he falls asleep.

###

Day 48

As they're sitting at breakfast that morning, Ressler is once again struck by the fact that nothing seems to ever get to Reddington. Sure, he's seen the man pissed off on occasion but for the most part, that congenial smile is always there with that smirk not far behind it. And as he watches the man while forking in another mouthful of sausage and egg, he realizes something. It's Reddington's mask. His own mask is one of non-emotion and control - one which has well and truly slipped off and been trampled on this past few days. But Red's mask is that easy going look. That air of calming those around him and putting them at ease, for better or worse. All the better to unsuspectingly slit someone's throat with, and all that. And perhaps he's always known that. But in deciding he's going to work for the man, subconsciously he's studying his…boss…in a different light now.

"Something on your mind, Donald?" Red asks him, pouring himself a second coffee without even so much as a glance at Ressler.

Apparently the man also has x-ray vision. "Not a thing," Ressler tells him.

Liz smiles beside him, pushing back her plate. "I'm going to get changed," she tells Ressler, then leaves the table for their room.

"You two have plans today?" Red asks, looking up as she leaves.

"Nothing big. Take a short hike. Just get some air," Ressler tells Red, helping himself to a second helping of eggs. He's making up for lost time in the eating department with an appetite that has returned with a vengeance; something he's sure Samar would nod approvingly at. He looks down, briefly wondering what they're doing at the Post Office today.

Red's voice interrupts his thoughts. "It's a lovely day for it and who can fault the scenery. It's breathtaking up here. Stop by the kitchen before you leave. I'll have Marie rustle up some lunch for you to take with you."

Ressler thanks him. It's still strange and different to think of going on a walk and picnic with Liz, yet Red is taking it all in his stride. But then, as he had just been thinking, the man takes everything in his stride. He'd do well to emulate Reddington in some things.

"I myself will not be here," Red continues. "I'll be having a late lunch with Harold this afternoon and discussing the new arrangement, and I must be heading out in a couple of hours."

"Shouldn't I be there too?" Ressler asks him, almost dreading the man will say yes. He wasn't exactly himself last time he saw Cooper. He's bared his soul to his closest work associates. They've seen him at his worst and now it's hard to think about facing them again.

"Not at all. You deserve a couple of days off," Red tells him, all smiles.

Red looks at him, puts his coffee cup down and the smile fades. That's another thing Ressler knows about the man. When the real Red shines through. "How are you doing, Donald? You do look a lot better, but how are you handling all of this?"

He's about to give Red the standard 'I'm fine' when he stops. "Well, I'm not really sure my mind has had a chance to catch up," he tells him, looking away and out the window at the view. "I like being - liked being - an FBI agent. It wasn't just a job."

"I know," Red tells him. "But Donald, the qualities that made you that agent are still within you. They're what sets you apart and those qualities are what I admire in you and what I know will work well for both of us."

Ressler drains the last of his coffee. "I knew the rules in the Bureau. I knew what was expected and I think I kinda need that…" he struggles for the right word. "…that restraint and that code." He shrugs, eyes Reddington with his half smile. "I'm kind of an angry guy."

"Yes, Donald, I had noticed," Red chuckles. "Dembe didn't tell me how he got that split lip, but I had a pretty good idea."

Ressler groans, grimacing at the memory.

"But I'm not asking you to do anything illegal, I assure you. I know you too well to put you in that position," Red assures him.

"I know that." And he does. If there is one thing he knows about Reddington is he can be a murdering bastard who will kill someone who crosses him, but he's also loyal to his employees who do right by him.

"What I do need from you though is complete transparency, Donald. I need to know when things are pissing you off, or angering you - even when it's me - in fact, especially when it's me. Or if things reach critical point again for you, I need you to come to me."

Ressler knows what he's referring to. "Well I just spilled my guts to Cooper day before yesterday, so yeah, I think I can do that."

"Good man."

"I do have a question though," Ressler asks him, leaning forward in his chair. "If we do manage to clear Liz's name-"

"When."

He corrects himself. "Okay, when we clear her name and you are comfortable enough to re-enter our 'little den of thieves', what happens to my position?" he asks, meeting the man's eyes.

Red smiles at Resslers terminology. He's adapting already. "Life is fluid, Donald. Things change, as you've seen first hand these past days and indeed the past 6 weeks. Chances are you will remain right there, even when I can step foot in the place. But rest assured, I will always find the best place for you in my organization that utilizes that indelible moral creed and skill set you possess. But for the foreseeable future, I need you in this position, liaising between myself and Harold's task force."

Ressler looks away at that.

Red sees the look. "You will miss it. It will be hard being with them yet not being on the task force. You'll miss wearing that badge, throwing on that FBI vest and storming into places as a Government agent. It won't be easy at first."

Ressler nods again. As usual, Red knows what he's thinking.

"But you will be out in the field with them though. You'll still get to wield a weapon and go barging into places. Doors around the world will quiver once more knowing you're back on the job," Red smiles.

Ressler has to admit, he did like that aspect of his job. Perhaps a little too much.

"There will be big adjustments. But Donald," Ressler looks up at him. "I think under this arrangement, you might just be a little happier."

###

He finds Liz back in their room dressed as if they're heading out into the Arctic. It's cooler today, but not THAT cold.

"Think you got enough clothes on there, Liz?"

"You know I feel the cold," she smiles. "We're not all endowed with your apparent immunity, walking around DC in the middle of winter with your coat unbuttoned. I still don't know how you manage that."

He shrugs. He's never really minded the cold. Turning to the closet to retrieve his jacket that she had hung up that morning, he spies something on the top shelf and turns back to her with it on his head. It's a straw fedora, complete with black band.

"What do you think?" he teases her. "If I'm going to work for the fedora wearing man, perhaps a change of wardrobe is warranted?"

"Hhmmm?" she's stepping into the bathroom and turns back, then laughs out loud. "Um, no."

"No?" he grins.

"Not only no, but hell no!" she laughs. "Don't you dare cover up that lovely hair of yours with that!"

He's tossing the hat, listening to her laughter behind him and realizes how far he's come in just two days. "You ready?" he asks her, tossing some things in a backpack he's also found in the closet.

"Not yet!" she calls out from the open door of the bathroom. Another change. He and Audrey never closed the bathroom door either.

"Well, while you struggle through 13 layers of clothing just to pee, I'm going to the kitchen to get hiking supplies. I'll meet you at the front door," he tells her, swinging the backpack over one shoulder as he leaves their room.

He's walking down the hallway from their room with Hudson at his feet when Red's words come back; 'you might just be a little happier'.

And damn it if the man isn't right again.

###

The air is cool, but not too cold as they leave the house wrapped in their jackets. Heading in the opposite direction from Ressler's first walk, they head for the trees as Hudson trots ahead of them, forging a path for them. Their boots kick through the soft pine needles on the ground, barely making a sound as they reach the pine trees. A cloudless sky is above them, giving them good visibility of the valley.

"It's beautiful here," Liz says, taking in the sight of the mountains around them.

"It is," he agrees. "I've decided when I retire I'm going to live somewhere like this," he tells her, and she looks sideways at him.

"So you'll go all mountain man on us," she grins at him.

"Be such a good look, right? I've got the jacket, boots and plaid shirt. Hey, I'm half way there."

She laughs out loud and for a moment he pauses and just takes in the sight of her. Wool hat plastered down over her ears, her cheeks are pink with the cool air. Her eyes are alight and bright blue in the sunlight. With her breath huffing out in front of her she looks alive, healthy and happy.

They walk side by side through the trees, stepping around rocks and patches of snow, content in each others company. There is an easy silence between them at times. And at other times they chat together. The ground is rising as they reach the foothills. It's not a steep incline by any means and they make their way along a ridge, finding an easy pathway. He holds out his hand on occasion to help her over some of the bigger rocks and rises. Hudson drops back, happy to trot beside them now. The ground is getting rockier as the trees thin out and spotting a clearing up ahead, he points.

"Looks like we can take a break up there."

As they come through the sparse trees onto a rocky outcrop, the valley lies before them. They're not that high up, but the large house is below them, surrounded in gardens and a large garage and workshop out back. The driveway snakes away from it, before meeting up with the road that disappears in the trees. As they're watching a car leaves the house, making its way down the driveway.

"There goes Red," she says, as they find a spot to sit with smooth boulders behind them to lean against.

Knowing that Red is going to talk to Cooper about their new arrangement, Ressler suddenly sobers. And he's not even sure why he's so nervous about it.

"You'll be fine, Ress," she tells him, and again he's struck by how everyone seems to know what he's thinking. He'd better give up playing poker, apparently.

He reaches into the backpack and offers her a bottle of water. She declines, but looks sideways at him. "I'll just drink some of yours."

6 weeks ago she'd never have shared a water bottle with him. But now, things are different. She's watching him.

"Don't over think it."

He raises his eyebrows and smiles. She knows him better than he thinks. He's rummaging around in the backpack, finding what Marie packed for them. "Want a… I don't know what's in this… sandwich?"

"I'll take some of-"

"Of mine, right," he pulls out a sandwich, breaking off half for her.

She shivers as a breeze wafts by them.

"You can't possibly be cold," he grins. "Seriously, JC Penney called and want to know where their winter inventory went."

She laughs out loud at him. "Hey, is kinda open up here," she justifies, "So sue me if I shivered!"

"Well, it just so happens that I'm prepared," he tells her finding the small blanket he'd packed in the bottom of the backpack and handing it to her.

"Such a good boy scout," she smiles, wrapping it around her legs as they sit together. Hudson is laying beside Ressler, taking the small pieces of sandwich that Ressler drops down for him.

"Not always. Dembe would definitely disagree with you on that this week," he groans, a distant look in his eyes.

"So what did happen between the two of you?" she asks him.

"I was a complete jerk is what happened," he tells her.

She pats his thigh. "Well, happens to us all," she smiles.

He exhales heavily. "Yeah..." He looks out at the valley below them, taking in the trees and the small lake near the house. "There's something I need…want to know," he tells her quietly.

"What?"

"On the night you called me in Dresden, where were you?" His eyes slide sideways to her. "And why didn't Red know where you were?"

She hesitates, but only because she's used to not telling him every time he's asked the last 6 weeks. She exhales, and he knows she is relieved to finally be able to tell him. "I was in a small village outside of Amsterdam, taking a night walk along a small canal."

"Okay, and how did you know I'd been to see Red if he didn't know where you were?" He's aware he's asking things that aren't important anymore. But it's more for his own peace of mind now.

"Is that what he told you?" she smiles. "Well, actually he didn't know where I was, but he knew who I was with."

Ressler looks quickly at her and suddenly his gut clenches. "Were you with Tom, or Jacob, or whatever his name is this week?"

"What? No! Is that what you thought?" she exclaims, looking up at him. "I was with Dembe! Red might not have known where I was, but there is no way he was ever going to let me go anywhere unprotected."

Ressler relaxes, and moves closer to her shoulder. "Sorry, just being a jerk again," he smiles ruefully. "Excuse me while I go park my ego over there," he grins sheepishly. There's something else he wants to ask. "And speaking of unprotected…"

"Don't worry," she smiles, brushing a tuft of green pine needle off his shoulder. "I'm on the pill."

He raises his eyebrows and gives her his half smile, suddenly embarrassed to be discussing such things with her.

"God, you really are such a boy scout, Ress," she grins.

"Sometimes," he says, rummaging around for another sandwich, while changing the subject that he knows he brought up. "So what were you doing?" He can see where her mind still is. "Near that canal outside of Amsterdam," he emphasizes with a small smile.

"Oh, right. I was following a lead and the guy I was meeting is wary of Red. I had to make out I'd split with Red before he'd even see me. Turns out it was a dud lead anyway, so it was a wasted trip. But when Dembe was on the phone to Red that night, he didn't know I was standing just outside the door, and I heard him mention your name and that you had been there. I quietly walked away and called you, because I… I missed you."

He had missed her too. Yet the call hadn't helped either of them.

They sit in silence for a few minutes, Ressler eating another sandwich, despite the fact he only finished two helpings of breakfast barely two hours ago. The sound of a plane reaches their ears and looking beyond the house they spot Reddington's jet taking off from the airstrip.

The plane circles, heading low above the trees and over the house before them as it flies up the valley. Liz waves with both arms, knowing if Red is looking out the window he will see them on the wide rocky ledge.

"He's just making sure we're behaving," Ressler grins and she cracks up beside him.

"You know, we have the house to ourselves while he's gone," she says, smiling.

He puts his arm around her shoulder and moves his mouth to her ear. "That house is so big it wouldn't matter if he was there or not, Liz," he tells her softly, as she leans into him.

"I know," she smiles. As she looks up at him their eyes meet as his lips find hers. He's suddenly not interested in the rest of his sandwich, much to Hudson's delight.

And on a rocky ledge near Banff, Canada, with Red flying away and Hudson beside them, they aren't missing each other any more.


	10. Chapter 10

Day 49

Ressler looks over at the clock on the nightstand as it clicks over to 2:42am. A week ago he'd stared at that same time and felt beyond desperate, his only respite being in pounding the pavement for miles in a deserted park. Yet now, he's lying back in bed with Liz beside him discussing the merits of midnight snacks. Or 2:42am snacks, to be exact.

"Ice cream," she says, leaning close to him. 'Or maybe pizza. Or yogurt."

"What? You're not pregnant are you?" he asks with mock seriousness. "Pickles too?"

"No!" she laughs, punching him lightly in his upper arm, "Just go find us something to snack on!"

"Well, your wish is my command. I'll go get us something," he smiles, rising from the bed. "I'm sure Marie has something I can raid from that well stocked kitchen."

"You might want to put some clothes on first," she smiles as his naked body shines in the soft moonlight shining through the window in the room.

Grabbing his jeans from the chair, he throws them on as he looks at her, "Right. But I doubt anyone but me is roaming the house at this hour." And barefoot, dressed only in his jeans he pads out of the room and heads down to the kitchen.

He's right; no one else is roaming the house at this hour. There are no lights on and he silently makes his way down to the large kitchen. Turning the light on brings a harsh white light that momentarily hurts his eyes as he opens the fridge and leans down to peruse its contents.

###

He opens the door to the room and steps inside, holding a plate of food as he closes the door. "So I got us a mix of…" He looks at her sitting in the bed as the bedside lamp lights her in its soft glow. His smile drops. "What's wrong?"

He's still trying to discern what's going on when she holds up his bottle of pain pills to him. It's déjà vu. Only he's the one walking up to her and she's sitting.

His hand moves to his right pocket. And of course, it's empty. "Damn." He quickly puts the plate of food and bottle of water down on the bedside table and doesn't know what to say. The tiny bottle of pills feels enormous in the room.

She looks up at him, "They were on the floor when I got up to go to the restroom... Have you been using the whole time we've been here?"

"What? God no!" he tells her stepping away from the bed and rubbing his hand on the back of his neck. He turns back to her. "Look at the date they were filled."

"I did," she says, "It's when you got hit by the car."

"Exactly."

"But why do you have them now?" she asks him, raising her eyes to him.

He doesn't answer that. Leaning forward he takes the bottle from her fingers, unable to bear seeing her holding them. "Did you count them? Because if you did you'd see there are only 2 missing."

"And you took those after the accident?"

Her blue eyes meet his. He can suddenly hear Red. 'Transparency'. If he's going to do it with his new employer he can damn well do it with Liz. "No. I took them 7 hours before I came crashing through that door," his eyes flicker to the bedroom door.

"Ress…" her eyes shine with disappointment.

"No, don't do that." He drops to the bed and sits beside her. "Look. You said it yourself, I looked terrible. When I took them I was in pain, Liz." He searches her eyes needing to explain as his mind is back in his apartment desperately trying to keep it together, ready to tear someone a new one. "Seriously, it made my meltdown with Jonica look like a good day."

Her eyes widen at the memory as her fingers reach for her mouth. As her tears spill over, he reaches out his hand out to cup her cheek.

"Ress, I know you've tried," she tells him, wiping her own tears away then holding her hand over his. "I saw your resolve that night when you poured them down the sink."

He nods, wiping her tears with his thumb.

"But tell me this. Do you want to take them again?"

Transparency. He hesitates, seeing the concern growing in her eyes. "Liz…I'm always going to be a recovering addict. I can't change that. But it doesn't mean I need to take them again. It just means my brain won't let it go and I have to be vigilant."

"You were doing so well though," she says, still holding his hand against her cheek.

He nods. "I was. But then everything-" he stops, looks away quickly and shakes his head. He can't possibly put the last few weeks into any semblance of words that will make her understand that it wasn't her fault he couldn't cope.

"Everything got ruined by me," she finishes for him.

He leans forward to her. "No. I was having a hard enough time having to hunt you. And then when I lost my job-" he stops. "Liz, I lost ME."

"Ress…I'm so sorry."

"But then Dembe dragged me up here" he gives her his half smile at that memory, "and then I saw you, and we-" He doesn't need to tell her what happened when they saw each other.

She moves his hand from her cheek and kisses his palm. "Yes, we did," she smiles, wiping away the last of her tears. "I'm so glad Red got you out of there and brought you here."

He nods. He is too.

"So what are you going to do with them?" she asks looking to the pills in his hand.

He doesn't hesitate. "Same thing I did before." He moves off the bed and motions to her with his hand as she gets up and stands beside him. She's dressed only in his t-shirt he now notices.

He leads her to the bathroom and with one arm around her shoulder, pours the remaining pills down the sink and washes them away. She's leaning into him as he does so, and pouring them away brings far less emotion to him than the feel of her against him.

###

It's 4:57am and Ressler is sitting at the window as Liz sleeps behind him. It's not that he can't sleep. He could easily climb back in bed and curl up beside her and sleep. The empty plate is near him on the bedside table, evidence of their 3:30am snack after they had poured away the pills. His gaze alternates between the moonlit landscape outside and Liz sleeping near him. In the morning he will need to leave and sitting awake is his way of prolonging the night and holding off the inevitable in a few hours. He doesn't want to leave. Doesn't want to return to his apartment with its row of suits in his closet and disheveled bed. He doesn't know what it will do to his spirit to walk back into that. To sleep in an empty bed once more.

It's only been three nights with her. Yet it feels so right. So normal, and he doesn't want to lose that. He wonders why they waited so long but then he knows the answer to that. They worked together. They couldn't take that step when they were both FBI agents. Not to mention he held himself back because it felt like a betrayal to Audrey. He smiles to himself. She'd have liked Liz, of that he's sure.

But he can cling to one part of it. Rising silently to his feet he finds his phone and comes back and kneels beside the bed. Lit in the moonlight, she is perfect. Peaceful and beautiful as she sleeps dressed in his white t-shirt. He silently captures the image on his phone to keep with him.

As if knowing she's thinking about him, she stirs and slowly opens her eyes. "Hey," she says sleepily seeing him kneeling before her.

"Go back to sleep," he tells her softly.

"Okay…" she mumbles and closes her eyes, falling asleep as he strokes her hair.

He resumes his place at the window and is still there as the light changes, bringing the sunrise on his final morning with Liz.

###

So it's no surprise at breakfast that morning when Reddington announces what they had both known was coming. "Lizzie, as much as it pains me to say, we really must be on the move again," he tells her, looking to Ressler also as he smiles apologetically.

"We know," she tells him, grasping Ressler's hand under the table. He squeezes back.

"We'll get you back to DC first, Donald, where you can start work and then once the plane is back Lizzie and I can be on our way."

"Where to this time?" she asks.

"No," Ressler tells her quickly. "You can't tell me." And immediately the irony is apparent. For weeks he's wanted to know nothing else except where she was. Now he cannot know.

Red is nodding. "Donald cannot know your location Lizzie. It's the only way to keep both of you safe. And more than that, it's a requirement of him being my liaison with the Bureau. They cannot have complete trust with Donald if they are aware he is withholding information on the whereabouts of their Most Wanted."

Ressler meets Liz's eyes and gives her his half smile. It's not going to be easy on either of them with him not knowing where she is again.

"Dembe will have the car around in 30 minutes and take you to the plane," he tells Ressler as they leave the breakfast table.

As they walk slowly to their room it's harder than he'd imagined it would be. "Liz…" He wants to tell her that he doesn't want to leave her alone. That he wants to stay and protect her yet he can't - because if he does that, he will effectively become a fugitive too.

"I know," she tells him. He doesn't need to put it into words.

As they enter the room Hudson comes to greet them while Ressler picks up his overnight bag. Rounding up his clothes he tosses them to the bed where Liz folds them absently.

"Let's get you packed here," she tells him. He's about to tell her he's quite capable of doing that himself, when she gasps as she opens his overnight bag.

"Oh, my gosh!"

"What?"

Tears are in her eyes as she lifts out the empty wine bottle from his bag.

He had totally forgotten it was in there. "Oh, yeah, I took it when I... When I left the office," he tells her as she meets his eyes. "Not very macho, was it?" he smiles, trying to stop those tears in her eyes from falling.

"I love that you kept this," she tells him, her breath hitching and now she's crying in earnest, shaking her head at one insignificant glass bottle that took on so much meaning when she shared it with him. "I loved that night… in our office, and-" she looks up at him. "I even miss our office," she tells him, smiling ruefully through her tears, brushing them away.

Dropping his remaining clothes on the bed ready to pack, he takes her in his arms. He tries to think of something comforting. Something cool that Han Solo would say, apart from 'I know'. But she doesn't want words, she just needs him close, knowing he will be gone very soon.

Kissing her neck, he holds her as her tears slow. "I do too. I'm sorry, Liz, I know everything is different for both of us now."

She mumbles against him. "You're sorry about us?"

But he knows she's kidding. "Not that part, nope," he grins into her hair and lifts her off him. "Definitely not that part. But I do have to go though," he tells her, tossing the last of his belongings in his bag. She places the wine bottle back in it, protecting it between layers of his clothes.

"I know. I don't want you to but I know. And I have to get ready soon also."

Leaning down he kisses her long and hard. "Reddington told me he would make sure we got to see each other. He may be a lot of undesirable things and a complete bastard at times but he's definitely a man of his word, Liz. I trust him on this."

She nods. She does too. And standing up straighter she gives him a valiant smile. "Well, better not keep Dembe waiting."

He looks at her, picks up his overnight bag and gives her one last kiss on her forehead. At his feet, Hudson is waiting patiently and as he moves to the door the dog follows him.

Liz looks at the little dog, "You take care of daddy, okay Hudson?" He wags his tail at her, staying right by Ressler, who's not sure how he feels about being promoted to daddy in their new little family. But he can live with it.

Hand on the door handle, Ressler looks back at Liz. She's standing by the bed, still giving him that brave smile. Both of them know she won't come to the car to see him off. It's better this way. He meets her eyes. In just three days everything is dramatically different. He's different. She is too. He doesn't know when he will see her again.

He smiles at her, imprinting how she looks in his mind. "I love you too, Liz."

He steps out through the door and walks down the hallway, leaving her breaking down into sobs as he walks away. He hears her but he can't go back. It will be even harder to leave if he does. Blinking hard, he makes his way down the stairs and walks through the lobby.

Reddington is waiting. "Donald, here is the information for Aram. You know what to do," he tells him, handing him a thumb drive.

He nods and takes a deep breath, still hearing Liz's sobs in his mind. "I do."

"Good man," he tells him as he now hands Ressler a phone. "Use only this phone to call me. My number is programmed in it. For both your protection and mine, this phone cannot be traced." He smiles, "And this is the number Lizzie can safely call you on," he adds.

Ressler looks up in surprise, smiles and drops the phone in his pocket. "Got it. And thanks." It's all becoming real. In a few hours he will be back in the Post Office yet working for Reddington.

Holding out his hand to shake Ressler's, Red suddenly drops his hand and smiles. "Aaahh, hell," he says and pulls Ressler into him as he hugs him close. Ressler doesn't know if he's supposed to return the hug but his hand rises to Reddington's back anyway. And once again he's in a new place with the man. It's his first day at work and it's going to take some getting used to.

Reddington slaps him on the back then breaks away as he looks at him warmly, "Call me when you are done with Harold. You're going to be just fine, Donald."

He nods to Red, "Thanks." He's not so sure. The prospect that looms ahead of him is a daunting one. He looks up the stairs, then back to Red. "Take care of her." And with that, he turns and heads out the front door as his little furry shadow trots behind him.

###

A few hours later he is back in DC, having dropped off Hudson at his apartment. Dembe is driving which right now is welcome; because he's really not sure he's focused enough to do so. His hands are sweating. He's nervous. Clenching his clammy hands together he looks out the car window from the passenger seat as Dembe drives him through the familiar city streets. They are almost there and his heart is pounding in his chest.

Get a grip, he tells himself. He's done this hundreds of times. But not like this.

They pull into the parking lot, moving down the ramp before parking near the elevator. He exits the car, checking his pockets for the thumb drive and the Red Phone as he's christened it, and nods to Dembe. They walk toward the elevator and he's half expecting the guards to stop him and pull security detail on him. Haul him off in cuffs or some other embarrassing and wholly disheartening spectacle. They do neither and stand aside after calling the elevator up for him.

"Afternoon, sir," they greet him, and he nods quickly to them before stepping inside the yellow box. He's a little surprised but then he looks down and shakes his head. Reddington can move mountains when he wants something. Getting him back into the Post Office is nothing.

Dembe looks to him and offers a brief smile. Ressler meets his eyes briefly. That's another thing he's going to have to get used to. This quiet soul of a man is going to be around him a lot. And that's really not so bad. He likes the guy - despite the fact he tore strips off him and punched his lights out. He's trustworthy, good in a fight and there is no doubting his loyalty. He could do worse for a companion.

The elevator stops and he's on the war room level once more. He's suddenly not sure he can move. But as the doors fully open he is greeted by familiar faces.

Cooper is smiling, stepping forward and shaking his hand. "Good to see you, Don. You look well." He claps him on the back. "That cabin air must have agreed with you," he smiles. Ressler knows full well that Cooper is aware he wasn't at his cabin.

"Thank you, sir." Reddington may refer to the man as Harold, but Ressler will always refer to Cooper as 'sir'. He's earned that respect.

Samar steps up next, hugs him tightly and rubs his back. "Good for you. Go get 'em," she whispers in his ear in encouragement before releasing him, smiling broadly.

He nods to her in silent thanks.

Aram shakes his hand, grinning from ear to ear. "Welcome back," he tells him. "It um, hasn't been the same around here without you," he tells Ressler. He suddenly looks to Cooper, "I mean…of course we're glad to have you back...of course sir," he stumbles.

Suddenly Ressler is no longer nervous. He is among friends. Among family. He exhales slowly and walks with Cooper down the hallway as Samar and Aram follow. Dembe stays back a ways, letting Ressler do this alone. Ressler's eyes drift to his former office as they walk. The room is empty and the lights are off, almost as if it's waiting for its former occupants to return. The sight of it hurts more than he thought it would. Many things are going to be different.

As they walk toward Aram's desk, other agents smile at him and some give him a thumbs up. He doesn't know how much Cooper had to do with that. He has a feeling it's a lot and he silently thanks the man as he walks beside him.

Their welcomes done, Cooper gets down to business as they arrive at Aram's desk. Their usual meeting place. It's familiar. It's safe.

Cooper nods, smiling. "So, what do you have for us?" he asks Ressler.

Ressler hands Aram the thumb drive, and within moments Aram throws the images up on the screens. As the figure of a man in his mid-fifties appears on the screen alongside a French passport, Ressler takes a deep breath. Samar flashes him a smile and a nod and he starts his briefing.

"Meet Gaston Bourgeau, also known as The Banker. Our sources confirm he's a member of the Cabal, working within the French government as one of their chief financiers and advisers."

And he's off on his first briefing in his new capacity. As he gives them the intel, his voice is calm and authoritative.

Aram is typing at his computer, eyes darting to the screen. Samar is leaning on the desk beside him, her eyes smiling at Aram, then also looking to the screen. Cooper is standing by them, nodding and asking questions of Ressler as he conveys the information and they discern their plan.

The side of the fence may be different with a new boss, yet the work is the same. The people are the same. He's now an outsider, yet still part of this team. He's changed in just a few days and now has a new focus in his life and an entirely new partnership with Liz.

He can't change what has happened. He can't go back and undo what he did with the drugs and the fallout from it. And yet despite all of that, Reddington has stepped in and given him a second chance.

###

Dembe is in the shadows, watching as Ressler gives the briefing. The agents surround him, asking the right questions and getting the intel so they can get to work. Cooper is dispensing orders, having Samar gear up so her and Ressler can head out to begin tracking down Gaston Bourgeau.

He smiles as he watches the group then retrieves his phone from his pocket.

"Raymond. He is doing very well. He is going to be okay."

~ THE END ~

_Authors note: Thank you so much for your kind reviews, comments, PMs, emails, tweets, tumblrs, messages, etc, etc, while I wrote this! Yes, I was SO nervous to take them there - you know me - I've always shied away from them actually sleeping together in everything I've written!_

_So this was just one idea I had for the direction the show could go. I doubt the Jons will take us there or that Dave and the Brandons will ever write this scenario! But it was fun. I'm toying with the idea of keeping this alternate universe going, with Ressler working for Red and all their goings on, (and of course, sexy meetups and fun with Liz.) I'm not sure if I should though as it might be confusing when I also stick to the canon universe in Conversations! What do you think?_

_Jeanette_


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